


Something There is That Does Not Love

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Experimental Style, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light BDSM, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke becomes the Inquisitor, yeah? That's something, yeah? Except it's nothing, just the background -- because after Kirkwall, Carver broke Cullen's heart and left him.  Gonna make things pretty sodding awkward now that they've got to work together to save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always have trouble writing Carver, and I suspect it's because I have trouble getting inside his head enough. So going to play around with second person as a way to _really_ get inside his head. Also, since he's the Inquisitor and the player's viewpoint character, he _is_ you, sort of. We'll see how this goes.
> 
> Title is from Robert Frost's "Mending Wall", because it's about... uh... well... mending broken relationships between men. Okay, that's really obvious, but I still like it.

     It's a game, see?  You're playing a game.  It's a weird game, where you're pretending to be in a place that's not quite real -- where rocks float and buildings have doors in places that make no sense and sculptures of figures that couldn't possibly have existed stand everywhere.  Where the ground is soft beneath your feet in a way that doesn't feel like loam, or mud, but like _air_.  Like there would be nothing beneath your feet if you didn't expect there to be something.  Which means you probably shouldn't think too much about it, yeah?  Or you'll start thinking there shouldn't be anything beneath your feet and then where will you be?

     Then you remember.  Bethy talked about this, in the night, in fear, when she woke you up with her crying and asked you to hold her hand.  The Fade.  You're playing a game where you're pretending to be in the bloody Fade.

     Well, why the fuck are you doing that?  This is a shit game.

     But you're in it, and you're not the sort to fold when you've got a hand to play, even if it's a shitty one.  So when things that blur and chitter and have too many legs -- spiders?  are those spiders?  are they _really_ spiders? -- start to chase you, and you haven't got your armor or a sword in the first, and a Smite doesn't do more than slow them down, you run.  Because that's what you do, yeah.  Did it when you saw the darkspawn rolling like a wave over Cailan's frontliners, at Ostagar.  Did it when they chased your family north from Lothering, so fast that you had to leave Bethy, your sweet Bethy, behind.  Did it when Garrett, fucking wanker, left you behind while he traipsed off to the Deep Roads and you felt the cruelty and poverty of Kirkwall rising up to swallow your mother.  Ran all the way to the Gallows that time, didn't you, and then spent years running from the truth that you saw every bloody day, which was that the Templars of Kirkwall were _evil_ and that made _you_ evil and there was really no running from that.

     You can run from some fucking spiders, though.  Run, stupid, run.

     The hill you're running up feels like a sheer cliff face, but since it's the Fade and gravity's playing the game too, you can run up it.  At the top there's a woman.  Older than Mother ever got to be.  Ridiculous Chantry hat and cumbersome robes.  She looks like the sodding Divine -- but of course that can't be.  You're probably just having another withdrawal hallucination.  "Hurry!" she cries, and you hurry. 

     The chittering is so close behind you.  You don't think spiders breathe like normal animals but you can feel breath on your ankles and it's cold.  And even though it's just a game, even though you don't think those spider-things are real, your bowels get loose in a way that's not remotely imaginary, and you crank your sluggish limbs that much harder because Maker, whatever's going on, you'd rather die than shit yourself.  Some things take fucking _priority_.

     Then you're atop the cliff, and there's a... a hole in the air.  A hole in the air?  A hole in the air.  Beyond it is something that isn't a game:  regular ground that isn't made of thoughts.  Bonus: no sodding spiders.  You sprint toward it, running fast now, but then, too late, you realize the old lady's footsteps have fallen behind.  And you're not so sodding evil that you'd leave her, so you skid to a halt and turn back and grab her hand and you're about to toss her over your shoulder, might break a hip or something but that's got to be better than letting spiders chew on her guts -- but then. 

     Her feet lift into the air, like something's grabbed her.  And something's _hauling_ on her, so hard that you stop and set your feet and use your other hand to hang on.  But there's nothing there!  It's pulling so hard that you worry for her arm socket, old ladies can't take a lot of stress, you're squeezing her hand so hard it might break, her face is _terrified_ and you see Mother in her, or how Mother must have looked with death looming before her and neither Garrett nor you anywhere nearby to save her, _you have to save her_ \--

     Something pushes you.  Someone screams.  Maybe it's you.  The world spins down black.

#

     You think first:  _Who am I?_   And it takes you longer than it should to come up with the answer.

     Carver.  You're Carver sodding Hawke.  Don't know how you forgot that, even.  Weird dream you had, eh?  Sucked everything right out of you, like.

     You know the things on your wrists are manacles before you realize you're on your knees and barely conscious.  Unconsciousness is a new thing for you.  Manacles aren't.  Your hand hurts, too, in a weird way that makes it burn and makes you think of cracks running up your fingers and down your forearm bones.  Hot cracks, throbbing with dull, steady pain.  The air smells of magic, which always makes you think of Bethany, and which also makes you think of mages looking to you with pleading eyes, knowing you're the only one who even wants to help them.  You can't.  They're doomed.  But they look anyway, and you see their eyes into the nights that you barely sleep through, and into the dreams you don't want to remember.  Eyes dying as the brand is set in place, even though they keep blinking and moving.  Eyes dying when you see the marks on them, teeth on the neck above the collar, bruises shaped like fingers on their wrists.  Eyes dying when they're strapped to the post for whipping, dragged into the dungeons for questioning, locked away forever in solitary or --

     You jerk all over and lift your head, thoughts coming alive in a furious jumble.  Where the fuck are you also _why_ are you in bloody manacles also _where are your Maker-bedamned kids_?

     "Kids," is what you manage to mutter, out of all that.

     There are soldiers in ugly uniforms standing around you, swords drawn.  You see this when you lift your head, for a moment before your hand seems to catch fire.  You hiss and look at it and see two things that freak you out a little.  The first is that you're not just in manacles, you're in bar-style manacles that are so tight you're not going to be able to work your way out of them, not even with that trick Isabela showed you.  The second thing that freaks you out is that the palm of your hand is bright green and glowing, as if someone's dropped a bit of paint into it that's splashed and opened the door to a world of green glowing shit.

     The door of the dungeon -- yeah, dungeon -- opens and someone's there.  Your eyes, dark-adapted, can't make them out.  Small feet:  a woman, or an elf, or both.  Metal rattling faintly:  armor, well-fitted.  No, there are two sets of feet, but one of them's nearly silent.  Two women, one of whom moves in stealth without even thinking.  They circle you for a moment in silence, and you get angry again.  You know exactly what this is, yeah?  Been on the other side of it too often not to.

     "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," says Metal Woman.

     "Where are my kids?" you demand.  Because that's the only fucking thing that matters.

     Your eyes are adjusting.  You see Metal Woman look over at the other woman -- you're going to call her Woman in the Hood, for now.  Unfamiliar faces.  Familiar marking, though, on the armor of Metal Woman:  she's a Seeker of Truth.  Well, that's just great.

     Hooded Woman shakes her head, just a little.  She doesn't know what you're talking about, either.  Good: that means the kids weren't captured by these people.  Bad: you don't know where the kids are, then, or who else they might have been captured by.

     "The Conclave is destroyed," Metal Woman says, resuming her pacing around you.  "Everyone who attended is dead -- "

     "Sorry to hear that," you snap.  "Where are my fucking kids?"

     " -- _except for you_."  Metal Woman stops before you, as if she expects a response.

     "Kids," you repeat.  You say it slowly, like she's dumb.

     Her face, which is angry already, contorts in sharper fury.  She bends and grabs your hand, hauling it up.  This sends a dull ache through your whole body, which maybe is happening because the green splash on it starts to flare and glimmer more with her touch.  "Explain this."

     You jerk your hand out of hers.  "Answer my bloody _question_ and I'll answer yours."

     "You'll answer what I _please_."  She grabs you by the front of your cheapshit mercenary armor, jerking you forward.  You know what this means, too, so you brace yourself, because there's an art to getting hit in the face with metal gauntlets.  You have to sort of loosen up the jaw, or it'll break --

     "Carver Hawke," says Hooded Woman, and you both freeze.

     " _Hawke?_ "  Metal Woman lets go of you and turns to stare at Hooded Woman.

     _How do you know my sodding name?_ you think -- but you don't ask.  Because you know how these things go.  Instead you take the opportunity to compose yourself and sit back on your knees and make your face as blank as you can.  Like you've never heard that name before.  Like you're not sure it even is a name.  Buncha weird words, whatever.

     Hooded Woman smiles a little, though, like she can see right through what you're doing.  Something about that smile weirds you right out, because suddenly you get the feeling she's the more dangerous of the two, even without metal gauntlets.

     "Carver Hawke," she says again.  Orlesian accent.  You've never met her in your life.  "Formerly Knight Lieutenant of the Kirkwall Gallows, formerly a mercenary of the Red Iron, formerly a volunteer in the army of King Cailan of Fereldan, Maker rest his soul."

     "A Templar," murmurs Metal Woman, frowning a little as if this surprises her.  You keep your face blank, but you want to say, _Yeah, you shit, and I was a good one, or as good as any Templar can be._   Then she goes and adds, "The Champion's younger brother."

     "Not either at the moment," you retort.  "Quit the Order.  Quit Garrett, too."

     Her eyes narrow.  " _Currently_ ," Hooded Woman continues before she can speak, "a scion of the noble Amell family of Kirkwall, though the legal status of that is somewhat in question.  Templars give up inheritance, of course, but you have given up being a Templar.  And your elder brother is alive, as far as we know.  As a mage, he cannot inherit the manor there.  But mages cannot hold political office, either, and seeing as he was temporarily elected Viscount -- "

     "There are three of them," you say, trying to get them back on important matters.  "The girl's the oldest, maybe fourteen.  Konsie.  She might be dressing like a boy if there are wankers about.  The boys are little, six and eight.  Good at pinching food and getting into shit they shouldn't."

     "There were no children with you," Metal Woman says, her expression hardening again.  "When you fell out of the Fade, the _sole survivor_ of the Conclave, you were alone.  Witnesses said they saw a woman, though the stories conflict."

     Shit.  Shit.  Where are they?  You told them to stay at the foot of the mountain, while you went up with the merc company that had hired you.  Too many people about who would smell out what they were.  Too great a likelihood that somebody would stab somebody else in the back and start something up at the Conclave.  Apparently that actually did happen.  "Was there some sort of fight?  Maker, that would've scared the kids off."  Maker, they would have run.

     Metal Woman hisses, balling a fist, even though you weren't actually trying to be funny or an arse that time.  "You pretend to know nothing?  _Liar_."

     Hooded Woman touches her arm and she goes still.  Hooded Woman's eyes are narrowed, scanning your face like she's reading a scroll.  "These children you speak of," she says.  "There was nothing in the dossier about you marrying.  You were ranked high enough to do so during your time at the Gallows, especially considering your noble blood, and yet there's no record of even a paramour.  Certainly not one kept long enough to provide you with a fourteen-year-old daughter."

     You manage not to laugh.  That's easy because you're sick inside, terrified, wondering if they're alive, wondering what Konsie's doing to feed them, wondering what happens if either the shit-eating mages or the pigfucking Templars catch them --  Nothing to say.  Too much tightness in your throat to speak through, even if.

     "Mages," says Hooded Woman.  You twitch before you catch yourself, and she nods as if you answered a question.  "I see.  These children aren't yours.  They are child mages.  From Kirkwall?"

     Your lip curls.  "Meredith's favorites killed all the children at Kirkwall."  Killed the adult mages guarding them, then gutted even the babes while they screamed.  You remember because that was when you broke, even if you didn't realize it for months after.

     "Foundlings, then."  Hooded Woman folds her arms, thinking.  "Your father was a mage.  And your twin sister, who is deceased.  And the Champion. An odd choice for a man from a family of mages to become a Templar."

     "Not for anybody who remembers what the Templars are _supposed_ to be," you say, before you can think not to.  But shit.  They know, now.  Yes, Hooded Woman nods.  Curiously, though, Metal Woman seems pleased by this.  Instead of running you through, like a Seeker ought to do for a Templar who's mutinied against his commander and abandoned his oath, she draws herself up a little.

     "Many of us remember that," Metal Woman says.  For a moment longer she seems to consider you.  You can't read her face, not because she's trying to hide things -- she fucking hates you, that's obvious -- but because she's trying to decide your fate and that apparently comes with lots of options.  You tick them off in your head to pass the time.  Murder, torture and then murder, slow murder, fast murder...

     Then Metal Woman steps forward and starts unlocking your manacles.  Huh.  Not one of the pigfuckers after all.

     "I need to find my kids," you say as the metal comes free.

     "Later," she says, grabbing your hand and hauling you up.  (Hurt again, dull and sickening, all down your arm and that side of your body.  Whatever the glowing green shit is, it's not good for you.  You don't like it.  You've felt worse, though.)  "There's something more important that you need to see."

     " _Nothing's_ more important," you start to say.  But then you're outside.

     You're outside, looking up a hole bored through the sky, blazing with green light like the stuff in your hand and pouring demons into the world.  You're looking at this hole, and it's _burning_ , and your _hand_ is burning, and you don't even need to hear it as Metal Woman says that the mark grows when the Breach spreads and that it will kill you.  You know this already, deep in the bones that are being slowly torn apart by the thing in your hand.

     You have to stop the thing.  The Breach.  Your hand.  Same difference.  If you don't, it won't matter if the children haven't any food to eat, because demons will rend them apart or swallow their souls.  So you go with Metal Woman -- Seeker Cassandra, she names herself.  You fight, even without good armor and with a pot-metal sword you scooped out of some dead fellow's hand.  You choose the mountain path because it's faster.  You tell Chancellor Roderick to go fuck himself when he says to arrest you -- but at least Cassandra takes care of the rest of the telling-off that's needed, there.  There's real hate in Roderick's eyes when you run on, but what else is new?  Never were any good at politics.

     You run and you fight and you run more, and finally you reach the footpath that leads up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  It's on fucking fire, though most of it's been put out.  Just smolders, interspersed among the crisped corpses and rubble and whatnot.  Up the path, through the trees, you can see that the temple's on fucking fire too.  Also you can see there's not much of a temple left, though that's hard to gauge since it's directly beneath the churning green whirlpool of the Breach.

     Then --

     Fuck.  _Fuck_.  It actually gets worse.

     You should've known when Leliana knew who you were.  You've done too much to cover your tracks; that wasn't just a guess.  You should've known he would be here, now, in the thick of it, wearing a ridiculous fur stole and wielding a shiny new sword-and-board set that doesn't look right in his big hands, with a cut on his lip that you don't remember being there when you last licked his mouth and told him you loved him. 

     Right before you fucked him crosseyed on his own desk. 

     A year before you broke his heart, handed him your armor and your last vial of lyrium, and walked out.

     He's cold when he sees you, his eyes lingering on your face even as he speaks to Cassandra.  "I believe you are acquainted," she says, and he nods.  All business on the battlefield.  (He doesn't look good, you note, think, ache, while you drink in his face.  Only been a few years but the time's aged him.  The circles are gone from his eyes; he's sleeping better. Still, his skin's waxy, face all over stubble where not long ago he wouldn't have been caught dead with anything but the circle beard and smooth skin.  It doesn't bother you that he looks so bad.  It doesn't.)

     "Ser Carver," he says.  It's brisk, perfunctory.  As if he doesn't know you, even though he should.   "I hope they're right about this ability of yours.  We lost a lot of people getting you here."

     Which reminds you of your kids.  Priorities.  "Lost a few myself," you say.  You don't stammer, which is nice.  You do duck your eyes, which -- shit.  "Do my best not to lose any more."

     "We'll see soon enough."  It's so cold.

     Then he's off again, promising Cassandra he can buy you time against the demons and then helping his wounded soldiers away.  Not another word of farewell, even though you both might die in the next ten or twenty.  Not a look back.  But why would there be?  You burned that bridge and salted the ashes yourself.

     Cassandra looks at you oddly in the wake of this meeting, but then she beckons you on to meet your fate.  You've got some glowing green shit to shut down, and your kids to find.  And the world to save, maybe, but fuck that.  You learned better than to think you're the sort who can save the world; that's for Garrett and his ilk to try, and probably mess things up worse.  You just need to take care of what's yours.  You just need to not think about what _used to be_ yours.

     Fuck. 

     Well.  The game's started, see?  You're in it now.  Time to play through to the end.


	2. Chapter 2

     So you're stuck, now, among the heretics.  Only bloke that can shut these glowing green rips in the air, yeah?  Means you're a prisoner still, even if they have taken the manacles off.  You walk through Haven, feeling eyes sliding over your skin like oil, and you don't think you're imagining the people who just happen to be turning away as you turn, just happen to be standing in the shadows behind you when you stop.  That's the Nightingale, probably, letting you feel your leash.

     You fucking hate her for it.  'Course you do; you spent almost ten years on the Chantry's leash, and now that you're finally free, here's this Orlesian cow thinking she can rope you?  You'll kill her first, or die trying.  You fucking hate Cassandra, too, even though she seems to be trying to start over with you after threatening to beat you senseless -- like you're going to just _forget_ that.  You fucking hate Solas, who clearly regards you as the worst of humanity.  Just some big dumb magicless brute who no, _doesn't_ think the world would be better if the Veil were gone, you actually think the world would become a sodding horrorshow if that happened, you've _lived through_ horrorshows and don't want to experience another, and you don't want to hear his explanations for how spirits are people too. (They're people who kill people, then.)  You fucking hate that Varric's here, his old familiar smile faltering a little because you're not the Hawke he really wants to see, his sly comments trying to drag you back ten years in time as if your life since then has been meaningless.  Right, fine, you were an arse at eighteen -- like most people aren't -- but you're nearly thirty now, and you feel even older than that even if he doesn't see it. Fucking wanker.

     Doesn't matter.  You've got other priorities.  You move through Haven now, covertly searching, trying not to overtly freak out, and you don't see the kids anywhere.  There's a war camp down the mountain, you know, and you know Konsie might decide to try and blend in with the camp followers, thinking they'll just seem like any other urchins looking for scraps.  You also know how that's likely to turn out, because Konsie's pretty, see.  She's used that before -- poor thing, you can't bear the thought, because sometimes you think of her as Bethany and the idea of Bethany spreading her legs for money makes you ill.  But it's what she'll do if they're tight on cash -- which they _are_ , it's why you'd joined the merc crew -- and a war camp's not generally a safe place to do that.  And worse, Lem's little and sweet in a way that will attract a different kind of parasite -- even if Malon's tougher and would die to protect him.  And Malon _might_ , because Malon can't control his magic yet, and he's powerful as shit.  Better even than Garrett, if he can manage to get through puberty without blowing himself to bits.  'Til then, he's a walking barrel of gaatlok.

     None of them should be dying to protect anyone else.  That's _your_ job.  You just have to find them first.

     But here's the problem:  you can't ask anyone about them.  You can't get just anyone to help you look for them, either.  The Mage-Templar War has dragged Thedas back to the horrible days of yore when mages were either meat or monsters.  Untrained mage children are worth five hundred crowns on the slave black market; apprentice-level ones are worth fifteen hundred.  Not as high a price as for unclaimed Tranquil -- last you heard, some weird Tevinter shits were paying five grand a head for those, Maker knows why -- but still.  Your kids have been hunted before.  They smell anyone after them for even a minute, and they'll run and be that much harder to find -- or they'll fight.  That's precisely the kind of attention they don't need.  Too many faces around here that are slightly familiar.  Templars, though from other Circles; maybe you've met them at ceremonies or on errands or something.  No Templar can be trusted...

     Huh.

     No.  Not even him.

     No.  He's never been that kind of wanker, no matter his other hangups.

     No.  He hates you now.

     Still.  You're not doing a good job of finding them on your own.  And he's not the sort to let feelings stop him from doing what's right.  Not anymore, anyway.

     You hope.

     You go anyway, because the fear that sits in your belly is unbearable, and because the kids don't deserve to suffer for your shitty love life.

     Cullen's out by the frozen lake, the shores of which constitute Haven's training yard.  For an instant, seeing him walking tall and stately amid knots of furious movement, you're thrown back in time.  A different yard, different sparring sets.  Different armor, and didn't he cut a nice figure in Chantry Red?  You watched him for years like that.  Met his eyes across the violence and saw the despair in them, a match for the lonely in you.  You wanted to take care of him.  It took a long time of such looks, but then there came a day when he blinked and _saw_ you, really saw you, and you saw in turn the realization come over him that you were staring for a reason.  He looked away after that, the first few times.  Things got uncomfortable, especially since you were his lieutenant and had to report to him.  You tried not to be an arse about it.  If he didn't want you back, so be it.  But then one day he met your gaze, and that was... Maker, that was...

     He turns, and he spots you, and it's nothing like memory.  For an instant you see blank surprise in his expression.  He must still not be used to the idea that you're going to be around.  Then, though -- oh.  His face hardens.  Very deliberately, wait it might just be that he's pacing and needs to get a look at the sparring pair behind him, but no fuck that, _very deliberately_ he turns away from you.

     Well.  You deserve it, yeah?  Broke his heart.  Broke your own.

     Still.  You set your jaw, hold tight to your balls, and walk over.  Tight quarters in the yard; you have to talk to his back or risk getting whacked with a pot-metal sword.  "Um.  C -- "  Shit.  "Knight-C -- " Shit.  "Commander Cullen.  A, uh, a word, please?"

     He turns to look at you, a hint of incredulity in his face, like _Didn't you get my cold shoulder, you buffoon?_   Okay, you're making the buffoon part up, he'd never use language like that, but that's what he looks like.  Still, he straightens to something like parade rest and shifts his gaze to just over your shoulder.  "Ser Carver.  How may I help you?"

     You wince.  "It's, uh, just Carver now.  Right?"

     "Yes."  His eyes shift to yours for a moment.  Wham, right in the pupils.  Is that contempt?  You decide it's contempt.  "Though as you can see, I am no longer a knight of the Order, either."

     Yeah, you'd noticed the slightly conspicuous lion-maned armor lacking any sort of flame.  "Finally had another thinkover about the Order, then?"

     Oh, shouldn't have said that.  It's too close to _I told you so._   You know it by the way his face goes dead, though his eyes are alive with fury.  Killing eyes, maybe.  Hard to tell, so bloodshot they are.  He really doesn't look good. 

     "My decisions are none of your concern, Car -- "  He pauses.  "Let's go with Serrah Hawke, instead, shall we?"

     It'll do.  You shift, and look away because you can't look at him anymore, but then you say what you need to say.  "I... I need to find someone.  Three someones.  I..."  Shit.  Find the words.  "I don't know who I can trust, here."

     There is a pause.  It feels like a year.  Maybe it's actually half a breath.  "I take it these someones you need to find are somehow of a sensitive nature?"

     Shit, he still talks the same, more words than necessary but all of them delivered like proclamations in that sodding gorgeous voice.  Like he's the nobleman instead of you.  It shames you into honesty, though you keep your voice low because sod it, these people don't need to know your business.  "Yeah.  Look, you don't have to do anything.  We both know you'd rather see nothing but the back of me.  I just need to know if there's anybody here you'd vouch for, somebody with... integrity."

     Cullen's looking at you like _What in the Void have you gotten yourself into now?_   You don't deserve that, and anger straightens your back a little.  "You know, forget it.  I'll take care of it myself."  Not much good he'd do you anyway.  Probably send a bunch of Templars after the kids, like _that_ would help.  You turn to go and he catches your arm. 

     It hurts -- gauntlets on bare skin, plus he's grabbing harder than strictly necessary, like he's angry and has to vent it somehow.  You flinch a little in reaction and he lets go immediately, which you wish he hadn't, despite the bruise you're likely to have later.  You miss being touched by him... stop it.  For fuck's sake.

     "Is this actually important, Carver?" he asks.  His brow is furrowed, his jaw tight.  He's offended to even have to ask.

     You set your jaw.  "Not to the bloody _Inquisition_ , no.  To me, though.  Yeah."  You hold your breath, because that's enough for him to say no, right there.

     Cullen sighs.  Shakes his head as if chiding himself for his foolishness.  Finally says, "Very well.  I will help you myself."

     So you walk off together, after he assigns oversight of the sparring to another fellow.  There's two feet of space between you and it feels like a mile, but it could be actual miles, so there.

     When you're away enough, and none of Leliana's little shadows is around (that you can tell), you say, "I need to find three kids who are probably down in the war camp.  They'll be keeping low, but they'll be hungry."

     Cullen glances at you, eyes narrowed.  "There's a woman who manages the logistics -- "

     "Yeah, not her, I don't want to be preached at about Loghain and how Ostagar was hopeless.  It fucking wasn't 'til Loghain made it so."

     You can almost hear his teeth grind.  " -- _among the camp followers_ ," he finishes.  "I work with her to minimize vice, theft, disease, and the like.  If there are new faces about, she would know."

     "Oh.  Uh.  Sorry."

     He shakes his head.  "You haven't changed.  Come."

     You don't know what to think of that.  Insult?  Compliment?  Neutral observation?  But you follow, when he turns and leads you down a half-overgrown path to where the bulk of the Inquisition's army is camped.

     Calling it an army is hilarious.  Mostly it's Chantry guards who've defected or don't know they're officially heretics now, refugees with not a lick of training beyond what they've been forced to develop in protecting their own from roving demons, newly-hired mercs, and the remnants of merc companies that died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, hoping for revenge.  They're army enough, though, that Cullen's somehow gotten the camp organized into rows of tents, infantry divided from cavalry per the old traditions, sutlers and other services squared off to the side, meal and injury stations throughout.  It feels so much like the camp before Ostagar that you actually know where you're going -- to the rear of the servicer tents, where it's a little dark, because that's how smugglers get black-market goods like mead or weedsmoke into the camp.  No army could function without that.

     The woman who opens the tent at Cullen's drummed fingers glares at him.  She's surprisingly young, pretty enough to be selling sex, though she's dressed in fighting leathers and carries twin daggers big enough to give any purchasing paramour pause.  But she says, "You're not supposed to come down here.  That was the agreement."

     Cullen sighs.  "I know, Hermir, but please."

     She shakes her head.  "You're the Commander.  You _look like_ a Commander.  At least take that armor off next time.  You'll scare off business."

     "It could not be helped.  And I pray there will be no next time."

     Hermir shakes her head, then, and lets the both of you in.  Inside, the tent seems almost bigger than the outside.  There's stacks of crates displaying goods, just disorganized enough to be storage, but more likely some kind of unofficial store.  She folds her arms.  "Well?"

     Cullen gestures to you.  You swallow and step forward.  "I'm looking for three children.  An older girl, two young boys.  The girl would be -- "

     "Konsie," Hermir says.  You stiffen.  She smiles.  "She gave me some other name, but the little one called her that.  She asked me about work, but she had no skills.  Never even fed a horse before.  They hadn't eaten in days, so I gave 'em a bit of bread, but that was all I had to spare.  I told the girl there's always the usual for coin, and Metir can make sure nothing too terrible happens -- fighting men just want to stick it in and shake it off, really, minute and a half tops -- but she said she had to try something else first.  Promised someone she would."

     That's you.  You made Konsie promise to try anything, _anything_ , but whoring.  You're the reason the kids are hungry now.  You're so proud of her, and so angry with yourself.  "Where are they now?"

     Hermir shrugs.  "Last I saw, they'd gone to one of the healing tents, offering to help in exchange for food.  A row over thataway -- "

     She points and you're already going, through the tent flap and in that direction, fast as you can go without running.  Back in the tent you hear Cullen murmur an oath and thank the woman as you forgot to do, and then he trots to catch up.  But you're going faster, trotting yourself, because you've heard a voice that is familiar and now you _see_ her, it's her, it's your Beth -- your Konsie, and she's turning and sees you, and even though her hands are full of bloody rags you're on each other.  You're holding her close.  She's weeping into your shoulder.  "Thought you were dead," she says.  "I thought.  You were.  Oh, Maker."

     "No, but I was out for a while, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry."

     Then there are two jolts from either side, and you look down to see Lem and Malon clinging to you like leeches.  They're crying, you're trying to hold them all and doing a shit job of it, everyone's staring but fuck 'em, here's what's important in the world.

     It takes you a while to get yourself back together.  When you do, you swallow and kiss Konsie's forehead and look down at the boys.  "Were you good, then?  No pinching?  Mal, no fighting?"

     "We were good," Lem says, firmly.  He's a big-eyed, sweet-faced thing, brown and delicate, with a soft cap of curly black hair that makes him look even younger than he is.  He looks like he could be Konsie's blood sister, because she's the same brown and has hair that's even curlier, but she's from Rivain and he's from Cumberland, and anyway they have completely different face shapes.

     "We were _mostly_ good," Malon adds, grimacing.  He's tall for his age, Freemarcher white, black-haired, strong.  He looks like you, if you'd been born a mage, or so you think sometimes.  There's a bruise on his jaw that worries you, because it means fighting.  Fighting is what gets Mal's magic up.  But the camp's not on fire, so that means he kept it in, this time.  "You're a right _shit_ , though, Carver, letting us think you were dead."

     "Not my fault, I said I was out of it, and then they had me in manacles until I agreed to fix one of the holes in the sky -- "

     A faint sound beyond you makes you look up.  Cullen's still there, a bemused look on his face.  The kids notice him then and go still, in the way of animals who've suddenly scented a predator nearby.  Lem shifts behind you, out of the way of your draw, though you don't have a sword on you at the moment.  Your nerves prickle in a way that means Mal's magic is tightening, and you turn to glare at him.  His jaw flexes in reaction.  He doesn't take his eyes off Cullen, but the prickle eases away.

     That's enough for Cullen to know, though.  When you look back, he's narrowed his eyes, and there's a whiff of the old wariness in him, a whiff of the old hard-ass, and it makes you tense.  Will it come to that?  Please, Maker, don't let it come to that.

     He sees that, too, your tension, and... something changes.  He blinks.  His expression wavers through several emotions, none of which you can read.  His lips tighten, then soften.  You don't know what any of it means.

     "Is this what you were looking for, then?"  he asks.

     You nod, slow.  He knows what they are.  What you need to know is what he's going to do with that knowledge.

     You see him consider options.  "There are a few mages here, among the volunteers.  I could arrange lessons."  He looks pointedly at Malon.

     You set your jaw.  "The Templars here know about these, uh, _volunteer_ mages?"

     "Yes.  Some of them... brought the mages."

     You know what that means.  It's sadism, maybe, that makes you want to make him say it aloud.  "So you vouch for these Templars, then?"

     Cullen takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh.  "No."

     You've just won an argument.  It's an argument that started three years ago, one morning when you were in bed together -- a luxury that he didn't permit often so you should've just kept your mouth shut and savored the warmth of his arms and the softness of his skin, but no, you just had to tell him that you thought there was something about being a Templar that _made_ people corrupt, something inherent in the role itself, something foul that needed to be expunged as surely as any demon.  Ah, thing is, you don't convince a man by insulting his calling and the people who've been more family to him than his blood.  Naturally he'd taken exception --

     Fuck.  Got to stop woolgathering every time Cullen speaks.

     Silence has fallen between you, and it's heavy and tired.  Finally Cullen says, "You will need quarters for them.  Shared with you?"

     That's... unexpected.  "Can I?  Yeah."

     "I can have it arranged, yes."  He considers your kids.  You don't like the way his eyes linger on Malon, but of course a Templar would know the one most likely to be dangerous.  Malon shifts next to you, uneasy.  You put a hand on the boy's shoulder to let him know you'll protect him.  Even from Cullen, if you must.  Cullen's gaze shifts again, though, and... Maker, you're not sure, but suddenly he almost seems regretful.  Like he shouldn't have looked at a boy and seen a weapon, not even for a moment.  He nods to Malon, and Malon twitches a little in surprise. 

     Huh.  That's... new.

     Then Cullen faces you again.  "I think it best you stay in the Chantry, in one of the underground rooms.  It may be damp, but the stone walls there are magic-insulated -- they were once cells in the dungeon.  In the event of a flare-up, that will give you more time to get them under control before anyone else notices."

     He --  That --  You stare.  He gets it.  _He gets it_.

     Maybe you stare a little too long, because the coldness comes back.  "Do you think so poorly of me, Carver?"  But before you can think of a reply, he sighs and looks away.  "I suppose I've given you cause enough."

     It's almost to himself.  You're not sure what to say to that -- besides, _Never!_ and also besides, _Well, kinda._  

     Then Cullen takes a deep breath and straightens.  "I'll go and speak to the quartermaster about your room.  If there's nothing else?"

     All business again.  And yet he's helped you.  You hold Lem tight, swallow against the knot in your throat.  "No.  Thank you, Cullen.  You... you don't know what this means to me."

       He nods.  Turns to go.  Malon tugs at your hand, which he doesn't usually do, because he tries to be such a man even though he's only eight.  He thinks men don't show love, even when it makes them shake like he's shaking now.  You hook him into a headlock, giving him an excuse, and he wraps arms around you and giggles and pretends to wrestle free instead of pulling himself closer.  You kiss his forehead and he makes a sound of mock disgust so you turn it into a raspberry instead.  Little idiot. 

     Belatedly you notice Cullen's still there, half-pivoted away.  Watching your children over his shoulder.  Watching... you?  He completes the turn too fast to tell, and walks away.

     You fold your arms around what you've found, and vow to never lose anything you love again.  It's a fool's vow, but isn't that what you are anyway?  Might as well embrace it.


	3. Chapter 3

     Things get better, a little.  Then lots worse.

     You're given a little suite of rooms down the hall from the dungeon you were chained up in.  They're surprisingly cozy -- the bed especially, which is deep and so soft that the first time you fall into it, you sleep for twenty hours straight.  Little tired, maybe.  One of the Chantry sisters lets on that the beds were made that way on purpose for the clergy, who give up so many other luxuries that at least they get to rest well.  You thank the Maker, and for once you mean it.

     The kids settle in like champions, but that's not surprising.  Before this, they've slept in barns, bedbug-infested inns, kitchen corners, merc barracks.  You've congratulated yourself that they haven't slept on the street once since taking up with you, but that's a low bar.  You always wanted to do better for them.

     Maybe it's worth it, then, being a prisoner here.  Not such a terrible price to pay, is it?  Your freedom, and all.  And you _do_ have to fix the world so they can survive in it.

     So you get a little more into it, when Leliana and Cassandra and Cullen -- yeah, Cullen, but it works 'cause he's professional -- tell you to go here, do this, do that, talk to these, rescue those.  All of this work nets you a few additional folks to help out:  a Gray Warden who was apparently asleep at the wheel during the Blight, a mouthy elf lass you instantly like, and a snooty First Enchanter who commends you for having been a Templar and in the same breath mentions how "useful" Templars are.  You can't decide whether to like her for expecting you to be what a Templar _should_ be, or hate her for being a managing schemer like your brother.  Time will tell on that one.

     Time will tell on the Qunari, too, who shows up with his merc company of misfits.  You're of a mind to send him packing at once, because you remember Kirkwall on fire -- but then he mentions that the old Arishok had a great rack, which so floors you that you forget to be righteously angry about his presence.  (He also looks you up and down in a way that... shit.  It's been a while for some things.  That must be why you blushed.  Has to be it.  You're definitely not thinking about...  Sod it, you just need to take yourself in hand more often, or something.)

     You put your foot down about the demon, though, even though it makes Baldy look at you like you're mud on the bottom of his ugly-arse shoes.  You don't care what he thinks.  You saw your brother's boyfriend catch blue fire as he ranted about "no compromise" while smoldering bits of the Chantry rained down around you.  Justice was supposed to be a spirit-not-demon too, yeah?  Fuck Baldy; Merrill's an elf mage too, and she lives in the real world of now, not the Fade of a billion years ago.  _All spirits are dangerous_ , she said, and who would know better?  You thank this Cole for saving you from Envy and the pigfuckiest Templars of all pigfucking Templars, but then you send him on his way.

     The rest have become your merry crew, in the meantime.  Can't spend so much time going forth to clean up Thedas' shit without bonding at least a little.  Even Varric stops talking about how great Garrett is for whole days at a time; it's a sodding miracle.  You catch Cassandra looking at you with approval once or twice, and you think Leliana's postponed her plans to have you killed and your hand chopped off, at least for awhile.  Speaking of your hand, it hurts less with every rift you seal.  After awhile you gather enough spare funds and materials to outfit yourself with a decent sword-and-board, and armor that doesn't split when you flex your shoulders too much.   

     It _does_ feel good to bring people blankets and food, and to offer them a bit of sorely-needed kindness.  You can't help liking that people who come to Haven get taken care of, guarded by soldiers you helped to outfit and succored by healers whom you've supplied with herbs.  They smile, these refugees and healers and soldiers, when you walk by.  You smile back.  It's... good.  This is all you've ever really wanted out of life:  good fights, good people around you, and good work to do on behalf of people who fucking appreciate it.

     Cullen doesn't say much to you during this time, although... well... he doesn't turn his back on you anymore.  That's something, yeah?  You don't say anything to him, either, for a few weeks.  What's there to say, really, that won't rile up all the old hurt that seems to have finally gone off to sulk somewhere?  He's given up the Order, sure, but you don't know that he hasn't just taken up a new master in this "Inquisition."  And you're not sure yet that the Inquisition is a master worth serving.  So... best not to even think in that direction.  It's over.  It's done.  You let him go, now you need to let him go.

     You do screw up your courage and ask him to spar with you once, though.  You can't spar with the Bull; he's too bloody strong, and your shieldwork isn't what it should be.  Accident waiting to happen.  You're still not sure Cassandra won't try to kill you on purpose.  That's why you ask Cullen, who's a master with the shield.  You're standing amid the sparring groups on the lakeshore again, full view of everybody, just a guy with a glowing hand asking the Inquisition's illustrious commander for a spar.  Maybe he won't eviscerate you for all to see, one way or another.

     Instead of telling you off, Cullen looks at you oddly and tilts his head.  "Why aren't you using a two-hander?"

     Fuck.  You'd forgotten... fuck.  "N-no reason," you say, trying to shift the shield to your back so you can go.  "Never mind.  Sorry."  It's a mumble.  You're halfway away, still fumbling with the bloody shield, before Cullen catches the edge of the shield to stop you.  Shit.  He's been decent to you.  You can't exactly snatch the thing out of his hand and storm off.  So you stand there, stomach tightening into knots, feeling his sharp, suspicious gaze on you like a beacon as he pulls your shield wide and takes a good look at the hand that no one else has paid attention to, except to marvel at the glowing green mark.  You can't watch as he pries the shield loose and takes your hand.  He inhales.  You feel all over of shame, though you don't quite know why.

     "Who did this to you?"  It's hard to hear over the clanking swords and grunts of the soldiers, and it's exactly what you didn't want to hear.

     "Doesn't matter."  You try to pull your hand free, never mind anymore that it's rude.  You don't want his bloody pity.  But he catches your wrist, gently but firmly, and it's either make a scene or tolerate it.

     "Thumbscrews?"

     Shit.  Shit.  You can't nod.  You just stand there like a lump, looking away, wishing he'd let you go.  It's answer enough.

     He says, slowly and heavily, "I had heard that the rogue Templars were not above coercion, to get others to join their ranks."

     "Wasn't about joining them."  You feel compelled to be clear on this.  "They knew I was one of the ones that raised sword against Meredith.  They knew I was still your man -- "  Belatedly you think about the double entendre and it makes you twitch, then clarify.  "They knew I wouldn't join them."

     "Then this was... revenge for Meredith?"

     "No."  You set your jaw in remembered anger.  "They caught us at some bullshit 'checkpoint' they'd set up on one of the roads.  I fought so the kids could escape, 'til there were too many and I went down.  They figured if they made me scream, the kids would come back.  Wouldn't scream just from being punched in the gut, though."  Idiots.  Nobody can scream after a gutpunch, but they hadn't been the brightest torches on the porch.  "They got creative after that."

     Cullen is silent for a moment longer before he finally lets you go.  He's still got your shield, though, hefting it as if he's concerned about it... though you know him, and you know when he's doing something as a cover for thinking about something else.  "How did you escape?"

     "Konsie."  You shrug and face him again.  Easier to talk about the kids.  Always proud of your girl.

     Cullen looks skeptical.  "Surely they were expecting a magical attack?  I can tell the girl has some training, but she can't be more than an apprentice."

     You have to smile.  "Yeah, she was in the Starkhaven Circle for a couple of years, after they took her from her mum. Escaped when it burned down. She's also a dead shot with a bow and arrow, and none of 'em were wearing helmets."  This pulls a laugh out of Cullen.  That's nice.  You've missed his laugh. 

     Then he sobers.  "You can no longer wield a two-hander, then."

     Most people don't get how much dexterity it takes to use a big-arse sword.  It's not a bloody club; you need to swing hard, but do it with _precision_.  You shrug again.  "Maybe when the knuckles heal up completely.  You know joint injuries take a while." 

     It's been over a year.  The ache is still bone-deep, and the stiffness never goes away on cold or rainy days.  You don't think about it.  Right hand's still good, and you're not complete shit with a longsword.  Just isn't as much fun as a claymore, is all, and you've got to get better with the shield part.

     Cullen finally gets done looking at your shield; he hands it over.  "You would do better with silverite," he says.  "Stronger and lighter than blue vitriol."

     "I'll keep that in mind."  You concentrate this time, and manage to shift the shield to your back without fumbling it.  He watches every movement.  Probably sees exactly how stiff your fingers are.  Sod his hawk eyes.

     "How did you meet them?"

     For an instant you think, _What, the pigfuckers who tortured me?_   See, this is why people think you're stupid.  You're not.  You just think like you fight -- straight ahead, full charge, not so much with quick feints to the side and such.  Also, Cullen knows to catch you off-guard like this if he wants honesty from you.  All your weaknesses, all your tricks; he sees right through them.

     But you don't mind.  Not so much.  Not from him.

     "I lit out for Starkhaven, after Kirkwall," you say.  Sheathing the sword's easier.  That hand's fine.  You still concentrate on it so you won't slip up and say something wrong.  Like, _I was half crazy with lyrium withdrawal, and crazier with missing you_.  Or, _I heard a rumor Brother was there.  I hoped I wouldn't find him, but I needed... something.  Someone.  Anyone._   Instead you go with, "Bought a night at an inn.  Proprietor couldn't change my silver, so he asked if I wanted company as a throw-in."  You take a deep breath.  "I, uh, I said yeah."

     You don't look at him.  Don't want to see what he thinks of you.  He only sighs.  He knows you used to hit up the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall, back before him.  "And?"

     "It was Konsie."  You shudder.  "A sodding _child_.  She'd made a deal with the innkeeper.  He gave her the attic -- her and the boys, she found them -- and whatever scraps were left after evening service, if she entertained the guests.  I was ready to go downstairs and give the innkeeper whatfor.  Guess I scared her, or maybe she thought I'd get her thrown out.  Her magic twitched.  Just a little, but I'd had no lyrium for weeks, so I was extra-sensitive."  It's not true what they say, that you need lyrium to be a Templar.  The lyrium makes it easier, but once you've got the skills, they don't go away.  "I was gonna ignore it.  She was doing all right on her own with the magic, and there was nowhere to take her, see?  Starkhaven's Circle burned down years ago, and Cumberland had already revolted, and... and I couldn't go back to Kirkwall."  You look away again.

     He says nothing.  There's nothing to say.  He knows what you think of the way he was running things at Kirkwall.  He also knows that's not the only reason you wouldn't come back.

     "But there were other Templars staying at the inn.  More pigfucker types.  They were going to kill her, so I killed them."  You shrug, even though you know what this will make you in Cullen's eyes.  Bad enough that you broke your oath and left the Order.  Now you are a traitor.  "We all had to go, then.  They've been with me since."

     Cullen lets out a little sigh.  Of disappointment?  Probably.  "I see."

     "Yeah.  Well."  You decide that's the end of it, awkward as it is.  You look away, try to think of a way to end the conversation so you can go somewhere and sigh.  "Good talk."

     "Do you hate us all, then?  We who were once your brethren?"

     _That_ brings you up short.  You glare at him. "The Void kind of question is that?"

     Cullen folds his arms, unyielding as a wall.  "You cast aside your oath.  I have done the same, true, but you've _killed_ others of our kind."

     "Yeah, and you helped kill Meredith!"

     "That was different.  She had been corrupted by evil magic."

     It's so much like old times.  "Some of us get corrupted by fear," you snap.  "Or greed.  Or something else.  You think _good_ men would try to kill a little girl for no reason?  Wearing the flame doesn't actually make anybody holy -- "  It's too much like old times.  You've had this argument before, and you can't take it.  You sigh.  "Sod this.  I'm out."  Not the first time you've said that, either. 

     He lets you go.  Again.

#

     Next day's a big day, though, when you and the decent Templars shut down the Breach.  It takes everything you've got.  The green fills your mind, drags at your bones, takes you somewhere beyond pain into a transcendant state that maybe feels something like what Bethany told you about working high-level magic.  (Does that make you a half-mage or something?  If only she were here.)  Anyway, it works, and the Breach snaps shut, and that's it then, yeah?  Doesn't feel quite right.  You still don't know how the Breach happened.  But at least now it won't swallow the world.

     A little better.  A lot worse.

     The attack comes out of nowhere.  It's worse than Ostagar -- at least there you were _expecting_ a fucking nightmare.  It's also worse because there are civilians everywhere, running, screaming, unarmed, helpless, and _you can't save them_.  Not all of them.  Not when _Templars_ are chasing them down in the streets to hack them apart, never mind that these people aren't mages and mages don't deserve to die like that anyway.  Templars who grin with red misshapen teeth and whose skin has split over red crystals growing from their bones.  Templars who make you think of Meredith and realize _Maker, she was just getting started_.  You stare at a horror that's twice the height of a man, crusted over and lumbering and groaning in agony even as it swings a great red-lyrium claw toward you, and you realize this is what she was becoming.  This is what _you_ could have become, if you'd given in to the craving and joined one of the rogue Templar groups to get lyrium.  This is corruption, writ monstrous and undeniable.

     Cullen rallies the troops, but you see it in his eyes as he calls for a retreat to the Chantry:  the Inquisition has no chance.  (His eyes meet yours.  You want to say something like _I'm sorry_ , even though you're not sure what for.  Fear steals your tongue.)  You do what you can anyway, saving as many as you can.  Even Loghain-fangirl Threnn.  Nobody deserves to die alone.

     But -- Roderick, dying, offers a chance.  Not free, but you can buy it for them.  You look at Konsie and the boys, who are huddled among the other survivors near a pillar.  Malon sees you and elbows Konsie.  You look away, quickly.  Easier to do this if you stay focused.

     One stop to make.  Cullen's yelling at some of his soldiers to shore up the door when you catch his arm.  "Take care of them."

     He falls silent and stares at you.  But you know he'll do it, even if he doesn't want to.  If he can.  You're going to make sure he can.  You grip his arm as hard as you can to make him understand.  " _Take care of them,_ " you say again. 

     Then you duck through the side-door before he can say anything back.

     It's hilarious.  An archdemon!  And _Corypheus_.  You remember killing him, but obviously you fucked that up good.  He remembers you, too, and flames is he pissed.  The sheer irony of the whole mess makes you laugh in his face, even as he holds you off the ground by your aching arm and rants about the Maker or something.  So much of your old baggage keeps coming back to haunt you -- Cullen, the Templars, _this_ asshole.  What's next, another Blight?  Your sodding brother?

     (Shit.  Probably your brother.  Well, at least you get to die before having to listen to his bullshit again.)

     Oh.  Oh, but then.  You see the flaming signal-arrow, arcing up above the trees.  Cullen did it.  He got them out.

     Yeah.

     So fuck Garrett.  Fuck the archdemon.  Fuck the Anchor or whatever it is.  Fuck the Red Templars.  Fuck the Inquisition, even.  You lift your sword in trembling hands; 'course you're scared, but fear has always pissed you off.  You're going to die, but at least you can make this moldy megalomaniacal darkspawn shit-spewing _arse_ pay for it.

     _"Sod off, you arrogant waste of skin!"_ you shout, and then you kick the crankshaft of the catapult to bring the mountain down.

     Damn.  You think of Cullen as you leap into the abyss.  Well.  Could be worse final thoughts.  You smile as the world goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

     Where the fuck are you? Tunnel. Under Haven? Ha. Still alive. Corypheus can kiss your mabari-tattooed arse.

     Shit. Being alive hurts.

#

     Hurts all over. Meredith is dead, probably, hopefully, burned to a crisp and frozen in place with creepy red crystals. She nearly killed you -- all of you. Cullen, Brother, Brother's friends, that elven Crow bloke, more. Never dreamt it would take so much. Done now, though. Brother's off sequestered with the surviving nobles, Varric, and the other big names of the city, trying to organize fire brigades and demon-hunting crews and all that. Cullen's ordered the remaining knights, 'cause some of the fuckers just walked off when they saw Meredith go down, to secure the Gallows and take care of the remaining mages. Things are getting better, slowly.

     Your job's to take care of Cullen, you've decided, and you go a-hunting him because he's vanished. You find him standing in his office, in front of his desk, staring at a pile of paper. He doesn't move as you come in. He's _shaking_ , you see. Reaction from the battle. You feel it, too -- the horrid, shocky sensation of spent adrenaline, with a chaser of existential panic. _What now?_ It echoes within you. _What now what now what now?_ Driving you nuts. Must be that much worse for him, because now he's in charge.

     "I have slain my commander," he says, as you move around him. He keeps looking at the desk, even when you step into his line of sight. "What sort of monster... I _thought_ of mutiny, I was beginning to think her mad, but I did truly believe..."

     Can't let this go on. You take his hand, lead him away from the desk, over to the fire. There's an armor-rack and a couch in his office because he often sleeps here to get work done; he's been the real leader of the Gallows all this while, 'cause Meredith was off getting possessed by weird magic shit. Somebody's got to take care of him. So you strip off his armor, slow-like to keep him calm, and the whole while you talk to him. "Not true. You're not a monster, she was. See what she turned into? You did what you had to."

     "I should have seen what she was sooner -- "

     "None of us saw it. When you did, you acted."

     "I should have been _better_ \-- "

     "Shut that, Cullen." You dare his name instead of _ser_. "You're more than good enough. Always have been the best of us."

     It goes on like this. He seems frail in just shirt and trou, so you take your own armor off too so you won't pinch or bruise him. (You keep the gambeson on because... because... well. You don't know.)

     (Eyes meeting across the sparring yard. One day, he hadn't looked away. But that's nothing to go on, not enough for intimacy. A maybe, not a come-hereabouts.)

     He won't lie down on the bloody couch. You've got him by the shoulders, trying to push him in a slow, steady sort of way, but he's braced his feet, and he's shaking harder. He's not looking at you. His eyes have the gleam of panic. "We've _mutinied_. They'll take the lyrium, Carver, we'll have no more shipments, we'll all go mad in here -- "

     Yeah, that's a scary thought clenching up your belly, too. "I've got friends." Varric's not a friend. Well. "I know people. I'll talk to them, see if we can arrange some smuggling jobs -- "

     "But we do not _deserve_ it!" Cullen finally looks at you. He grips your shoulders, hard, like he wants to shake you. He's shaking too hard to do that. It's a panic attack. The words tumble from his mouth like an avalanche. "We have broken our oaths to Andraste, to the Maker, we have failed to protect the mages who were in our care, failed to protect our brethren -- "

     Shit. You grip his face, pull him close, press your forehead against his. He's hot as a fever. "That's not bloody true! We nearly died to protect them, you nearly died -- "

     "I am nothing, I am a monster, the demon was right and I am weak, weak -- "

     You kiss him to shut him up. That's what you're actually thinking. He's beautiful. You're half in love with him just from that look across the sparring yard. But that's how it starts. Your mouth on his, lips stilling lips, stifling a rant. He freezes. You think about what you're doing and panic a little yourself, pulling away. "S-sorry -- "

     He kisses you back. Your eyes are wide open. His, too. You stare at each other when you pull back this time. You swallow. What now? What now?

     Him. _Him_ , now.

     So you kiss him again. Slow this time. You play with his mouth a little, like you've wanted to do for so long. He shivers, but it's different from the shaking before. He shuts his eyes.

#

     It's cold. It's so sodding cold. You're Ferelden and all, bit of snow won't kill you, but snow plus ice plus blowing wind plus the fact that you're hurt and not dressed for any of it... yeah, that might do it.

     Something burning up ahead. Hurts all over. So cold. You stumble toward it.

#

     It's not something you intend to take further than the kiss, but stuff just happens. The couch is right there but you pull him backward, sweep all the shit off his desk so he knows it's less important than _him,_ than his mouth, than your arms around him holding him secure. "I've got you," you're murmuring between kisses. It's nonsense. "See? Got you. Not letting you go. I have you. Right here, this is me."

     "Please," he says. You don't know what he's begging for. "Please, Carver."

     So you lay him down. Nobody's ever been kind to him, soft with him, not even after Kinloch. You kiss his clothes away and touch him so gently. He's shaking with need. "Been a while?" you ask. You're smiling, trying to make sure he's okay with this, teasing a little.

     "Years," he says. He is solemn, watching you like he wants to beg some more, but pride holds him back. Okay, so. You've got your work cut out for you.

     It's beautiful work. He breathes beneath you, red-gold in the firelight. His skin is soft, and all over bruises wherever Meredith tagged him; got to be careful not to hurt him more. He tastes of salty, bitter fear-sweat. You lap it from his navel and he gasps, belly concaving in reaction, skin goosebumping. On impulse you try to bite a goosebump. He moans. Fuck, you can't take it. You go back up to his mouth to chase more moans out of him, while your hands ease his pants down, smooth over the cock that juts against you, pet him gently, coax his balls out of their "right the fuck now" state. 'Cause you're just getting started, yeah? You're thinking you'll ride his cock or just stroke you both off, 'cause no telling what the fucking demon did, you don't know if he's okay with everything. But he lifts his legs and wraps them 'round you and fumbles wildly for a lamp full of oil and pushes it toward your hand. When you try to pull back, check in, ask questions, he drags you back down and demands your mouth and really, that's a message in itself, yeah? He's older than you, a little, and obviously he knows what he wants. Celibate now doesn't mean celibate always. Never been anything wrong with a bit of fun.

     "I have you," you say again. Then you have him. Maker, but it's sweet. Just you, and him, and the desk, and the crackling fire. That's all you'll ever need, you think at the time.

#

     More fire ahead. It blows out as you reach it, but the ashes are still warm. It's the remnants of a broken-down wagon that someone burned for kindling. Lots of tracks around, though barely visible beneath the fresh-fallen snow. People camped here.

     Hope's nice. You stumble after the fading tracks, a little faster than before.

#

     After, you finally get him to the sodding couch. No blanket so you spoon him, hold him tight, make sure he's warm. He's not shaking anymore.

     He says, softly, "Do you love me?"

     "Yeah," you say. 'Cause you do.

     "Will you..." He swallows. "Will you stay with me? Help me?"

     "'Course," you say. You don't mean for it to be a lie.

#

     Tired again. The tracks are gone. The wind's died a little, but the sun is setting. You think. You're not sure the fucking sun still exists, really.

     Cold and plodding. Nothing around you but trees and silence. It's beautiful, this mountainside. You try not to think about how you're going to die on it.

#

     Everybody does what they have to. Brother takes the Viscount's circlet, even though he's a mage, even though he doesn't want it. He sends Anders away because the man's presence alone threatens to set off another terrorist incident -- even though he still loves Anders, and what's left of Anders still loves him. Cullen marshalls the remaining Templars and mages to help take care of the city. You keep taking care of Cullen, though he says it has to stay secret for the good of morale, or something. That means visits every few nights. Sometimes you just hold him instead of fucking. Sometimes you talk all night. You tell him you love him, often, because he needs to hear it. You like saying it. It's good.

     Through Varric, you contract with the Carta for lyrium. They've got you over a barrel and they know it, so the price is ridiculous. It forces Cullen to send some of his Templars out as paid guards -- little better than mercenaries -- for Kirkwall nobles. He has to sell the mages' services, too, more than just enchantments; some of them have to go to nobles' houses and do magic tricks, kind of like how your father met your mother. It's undignified, but not terrible. That's where the problem starts, though. Some of the mages are okay with what Cullen orders them to do. Some of them aren't -- but Cullen requires them to do it anyway. You know why. Everyone needs to help out if you're going to get through this. Still, can't forget that the mages are being asked to sacrifice on behalf of Templars they were fighting in the corridors only a few weeks before.

     One of the mouthier mages gets into it with one of the stupider Templars. Says he's not prostituting himself anymore so that the dogs of the Chantry can get their lyrium treats. The Templar he says this to sneers back that he's lucky he _isn't_ prostituting himself, because nobody would pay much to ride his skinny arse. She doesn't know he's one of the ones Karras raped. He doesn't get that she's one of the ones who's voluntarily put herself on half lyrium rations so that others who need it more can get by. It's made her cranky and she knows it, and she's joking to try and defuse the situation. It's just bad timing.

     He hits her in the face with force magic. It's too much because he's had a flashback; she's reminded him of stuff he doesn't want to think about, can't think about without his mouth going dry or his body locking up or his ears echoing with dead voices. Knocks the Templar halfway across the courtyard, breaks both her legs. Three nearby knights smite him unconscious, then bring him to Cullen. You're there when Cullen listens to the story, gets the healer's report on the downed knight -- back on her feet in three days with magic -- and hears the mage's apologetic confession that he lost control.

     Cullen orders him made Tranquil. They drag him out; he's screaming, weeping, pleading for mercy. You manage to hold it in 'til everyone's gone, and then you stare at him. Cullen is implacable. "This is Chantry law. A mage who wields magic against a Templar in anger, to do harm, is a threat to all. The usual punishment is execution; I'm opting for Tranquility because he says he lost control."

     To Cullen, this is a huge concession. To you, it's nothing. "We're fucking excommunicated from the Chantry!" You try not to shout it, but you do anyway. "And their laws are why there's a war brewing. Cull, Meredith's _gone_ , we don't have to be her anymore."

     "Meredith's error was going beyond the law." Cullen's lips have gone thin and hard. He's determined. "If we _adhere_ to the law and do not surpass it -- "

     "You know what Karras did to him." Karras is dead, killed in the violence after the mages rebelled, or you might have killed him yourself. "That mage couldn't _help_ overreacting."

     "We are sworn to _uphold_ Chantry law, Carver. If you question that -- "

     "Fucking right I question it! You know this is wrong, Cull!"

     "I'm _wrong_?" Cullen doesn't get mad often. It's scary when he does. He stands up, gets in your face before you even have time to tell him _That's not what I said_. He's shaking again, and you see Kinloch in his eyes. "I have seen what happens when mages are permitted to defy the law! Do not think I do this for _pleasure_. And do not question my judgment again on a matter of _security_. I do this to protect all of us!"

     "Cull..." You can't think of anything to say that will change his mind. He's trying to find a halfway point somewhere between Meredith's madness and a thousand years of Chantry history; not really his fault that you and he don't agree on where that point should fall. You can't push it any further, either, or he'll shut you down completely. He walks away. You don't know what to do.

     You were named for Maurevar Carver, who knew that the best of mage-kind should not be caged. The mouthy mage isn't the best; all this started because he was too fucking selfish to help out. You're not willing to risk your commission, your relationship, for him. Still, you make yourself attend while they apply the brand. You listen to the gibbering pleas, the hiss of hot metal on flesh. You turn away only when his eyes go dead.

     That night Cullen touches you. You pull away. He... doesn't reach for you again.

     It ended there, you realize later, thinking back. Limped along a few months more, after Brother's disappearance, as word from other Circles came back uglier and uglier. You tried to talk to Cullen about it, but he cut those conversations short every time. You tried to tell him that it was time for the Templars to find a new way. He stopped asking your opinion about disciplinary matters entirely, even though as Knight Lieutenant you were supposed to be consulted. You started deliberately stepping down your lyrium rations, trying to wean yourself off. It made you clumsy and cranky; he reprimanded you twice for stupid, distracted mistakes. Finally, one day, you unlocked a door you knew you should have locked, looked at the mage inside so she would know you'd done it deliberately, and went to bed. The next morning, when the first reports came in that the mage had escaped, you went to Cullen, set down the pile of your armor with that last three-quarters-full vial of lyrium on top, and said you were leaving.

     "Come with me," you said. It was a plea.

     "Do not ask me to choose, Carver," he said back. His voice shook. "You cannot ask it of me."

     So you didn't. You just left. That was the end.

#

     Cold. Cold. Cold. Plodding. Tired. Cold.

     If only you could lie down.

     Cold. Cold. Cold.

     No. Keep going. Don't give up. Your kids --

     Cold. Cold. Cold.

     Maybe they're better off without you. Cullen will see they're fed, at least. Konsie's training the boys, best she can. They'll be all right.

     Cold. Cold. Cold. Do you even have feet anymore? Cold.

     No. Mages need to be _protected_ , not just allowed to live. You did that for Bethany, 'til you couldn't. Did it for Garrett 'til he pushed you away. That's what your father asked you to do. That's what you were born to do. They need you.

     Cold. So cold.

     So -- the world blurs. Are those footsteps? Is that torchlight?

     So cold. On your knees, now.

     Cullen's hands, pulling you up. If it's a dream, it's better than reality already. "Carver!"

     "Sorry," you say. You should've said it before. "I'm sorry I didn't... wait for you."

     Josephine's weeping. You hate that; she's so nice. You've hurt her, haven't you? Fucking wanker, you. Cassandra sounds choked up as someone else lifts you. "In Andraste's name, he must have walked all this way, alone and injured. We should have sent a search party back, should have..." Someone hushes her.

     The person carrying you smells like Cullen. You've never forgotten this scent. It makes you feel safe.

     "Should've given you more time," you continue. "Should've... not pushed you so hard. Should've realized you were listening, thinking, but I just... couldn't take it. You weren't there for me when I needed you. You were trying, but you couldn't come that far. I should've... Trying should've been enough, Cull. I'm sorry I was weak."

     Are you even saying this out loud? Feels like you're mumbling. Maybe you're dying. Took too bloody long to make your deathbed confession, then; nobody understands what the fuck you're trying to say. Dumbarse.

     "I have you, Carver," Cullen says. His arms are so strong. "Hush. Maker's breath. I have you."  And

     you're

     warm

     now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn it I've had to start a new playthrough of Inquisition because my memory of the game has faded and I'm making mistakes. Kudos to gardensgnome for pointing out that if Carver chose the Templars, it wouldn't have been Red Templars attacking Haven. I decided to keep it like this rather than fixing it because I do think there's some symbolic value in Carver-as-ex-Templar fighting the horrific manifestation of what he could've become. But still, it's an amateurish mistake and I'm sorry.
> 
> In my new playthrough, my Inquisitor is named "Carver". Because the character creator in Inquisition makes everyone look like shit, he actually does look like a ten-years-older, careworn, somewhat gaunt Carver, with a terrible haircut. I can't mod it to make Cullen bisexual since this is on the PS4, but it's amazing how many scenes there are in DAI where the Inquisitor and Cullen stand side-by-side, staring intently at each other. Never noticed that before.

     Something changes.

     Even you feel it. It starts with the singing -- Maker, it's cheesy, but something feels different after the song is done. Baldy says you've just watched a purpose be born. For once you understand and agree with something he says.

     Listening to Baldy also leads you to a home for that purpose: Skyhold. Who in the Void _loses_ a bloody _castle_? Whoever it was, their loss and your luck. It's a fixer-upper, but it's a roof, and a good strong foundation. Everybody moves in, starts patching the wounded, starts cleaning up. Starts over.

     Starts over.

     You see Cullen across the debris-strewn courtyard one day, talking to his soldiers and aides while you basically faff about and let everyone see that you're still alive because for some reason this cheers people up. His gaze meets yours, and lingers for a moment. You haven't forgotten him carrying you. Something's changed here, too. But... is it enough? It hurt so much before to have him, then lose him. Do you have the stones to try again?

     Not yet. This time you're the one who turns away. Fucking coward. But it's the truth.

     The kids sodding love Skyhold, cold and half-condemned as it is. Someone sets up rooms above the garden -- one for each of them, with nice beds and pretty rugs and actual chests with actual locks that they can keep things in, all to themselves. They fill the rooms with such unfettered laughter that sometimes you can hear them from the throne room, which makes you smile. Lem, who's not usually the adventurous type, gets caught in all sorts of nooks and crannies of the place; he's constantly underfoot, though nobody really minds. In between extracting Lem from this wine cellar you didn't know you had or that library you didn't know was there, Malon stays in the courtyard, staring at flowers and periodically muttering stuff like, "This place is glad to have been found."

     (You worry, a little, about this. Because of it you muster enough guts to ask Dorian to have a look-in on the lad. Whatever other issues you have with the Tevinter -- mostly that he's Tevinter, but also that Maker-awful moustache -- you can feel the rock-steadiness of his magic beneath the flash. He feels like your brother, right down to the confidence in himself that you cannot bring yourself to find sinful in a mage, even after years of Chantry sermons about mage subservience. He agrees so readily that you instantly like him more than you like Garrett. Wish he'd drop the flirting, though. Not your type at all.)

     Konsie, who's been hanging about with the Chargers rather more than you like -- "archery" lessons from Dalish, right -- is constantly in the sparring areas and the armory. You have a set of light armor made up for her and she practically pisses herself hugging you. Yeah, you win all the Papa points that day.

     It bugs you to have them sleeping so far from you, though. As new duties start to take up more and more of your day, you worry irrationally that they'll forget you. Who's to Silence them if Malon loses it? There are no Templars here whom you trust, except maybe that Barris fellow; maybe you can talk to him. But who'll tell Lem it's okay if he wets the bed now and again, and dry his tears? Who'll talk with Konsie for hours on end, not about anything much, but just letting her feel normal and safe again? But Leliana points out the scary obvious -- that you don't really want the kids nearby the next time some wanker tries to assassinate you. Because that's a thing you're going to have to deal with now, see. Assassinations, and people trying to influence you by hurting or spying on the kids, or maybe kidnappings. Too many wankers, in too many corners and shadows. You can't just kill them all, either. It makes your mouth dry and your heart clench just to think of it.

     In the same talk, though, Leliana points out the protection detail allotted to the children: silent, shadowy agents who always know where Lem is, always know when Malon's deep in the magic, always watch Konsie when she spars with Grim or Krem. They're unobtrusive. Lem hasn't even noticed his. Malon has, and regards the bloke with a good deal of suspicion, but understands the necessity. Konsie's grateful for the quiet elven woman who's always at her back. It's not normal life, but it's as close to normal as you can give them, while still keeping them safe.

     You've never been grateful for Leliana's managing ways before, but you are now, and you tell her so. She seems taken aback by your thanks. Softer, sort of. More human. It's nice.

     The _situation_ is still shit, of course. The Inquisition owns you, now that your sodding advisors have ambushed you with a -- a coronation, or whatever the hell that ceremony was. (Nice sword, tho.) There's no getting away from it anymore. That said, you sort of own it back. You're the one who decides what the organization will focus on: rebuilding or relocation? Demon-hunting or dragon-hunting? (The others are shocked when you tell them the Ferelden Frostback isn't your first or even third dragon killed. You've lost count. Kirkwall was infested with the fucking things. The Bull looks like he's going to cream his balloon pants; starts calling you "kadan." You think that's a good thing? Better than "target.")

     You set the agenda. You're a part of the narrative. You... matter. A little. Maybe. You maybe like it.

     A month ticks by. Feels like a year. Then one day you walk in on Cullen bent over his desk, staring down at a horribly familiar wooden case. He doesn't even see you, he's so fixed on it, and you know exactly why. Shit. You stop in the doorway, your belly clenching for all sorts of reasons. You don't want to watch him take his philter. You can't. The craving in you, which you actually haven't noticed for a few weeks, leaps to the tip of your tongue at the sight of that box. You need to go, before you... what? Beg to lick the dregs? Snatch the vials out of his hand and toss them through the window? Just start screaming, about nothing in particular?

     But to your shock, Cullen snarls and flings the box across the room, hard enough to shatter everything in it -- and nearly pegging you good in the process. You jump back in the nick of time. Cullen looks up, shocked and angry and guilty at your presence in a way that -- oh. Oh, fuck. In a way that you really, really should've recognized. He still looks like shit, see. His skin is dry and pinched over his nose in a way that makes it look like he's perpetually snarling. His eyes are sunken, not like in the old days of the nightmares, but as if his face is puffy, retaining water. And his hands are shaking. That part in particular you should've seen, because yours shake, too, sometimes. Even now, two full years after you quit. Lyrium's claws strike deep.

     So deep. Cullen wouldn't look like this if he was still _taking_ the lyrium. He hasn't been taking it, this whole time.

     And he sees that you know, now. Resentment wars against chagrin in his face as he starts to come around the desk. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't hear you come in. I -- " But then he flinches, stumbles, catches himself against the edge of the desk, puts a hand to his forehead. You hurry forward to help him. He tries to wave you away, but he's too out of it for that. You help him to the desk-edge and then let go. Skin's sensitive, at this stage of things. You remember. You look around; there's a flask over by the washstand. Hopefully it's potable. You fetch a cup of water, taste it to make sure, then bring it back and press it into his shaking hand. He blinks at you as the dizzy spell fades.

     "It helps," you say. "Dehydration makes the cramps worse, yeah?"

     He blinks like he didn't know this, but he drinks. You have to help him; his hand's shaking so bad some of the water spills. When he gets it all down, you set the cup aside. You're hovering, you know. Can't help it.

     "Well," he says at last, recovering. "You haven't said 'I told you so.' That is something."

     Your jaw tightens, but you fight back the anger. He'll be irritable in this state, too. Instead you say nothing, and after a moment he sighs. "Ah. That was uncharitable of me. My apologies."

     "'S nothing," you mutter, making yourself feel it. It's not as hard as you feared. "Want some more water?"

     Cullen scowls. "What I want is my _mind_ back. I can think of nothing but lyrium. The craving... it's relentless."

     "Yeah." You know. "Gets better, though. Eventually."

     He grunts, though you're not sure he really heard you. "Well, until then, I cannot concentrate as I must on my duties. I have read the same report five times today, without really processing it. _Lives_ depend on me." He gets up, starts pacing. You step back and discreetly move the remaining lyrium vials behind a stack of paper on his desk, out of his immediate sight. Maybe that's for him, maybe it's for you, but he doesn't even notice. That's the proof of how much the craving has him, and how distracted he really is. It's bad.

     He goes on for a little while, pacing faster and faster, frustrated that he can't give as much to the Inquisition as he gave to the Chantry (which you think is because he gave the Chantry too Maker-damned much) and how he _should_ be taking the lyrium. You want to shout, NO YOU SODDING SHOULDN'T. But you bite your tongue. Only he can decide that. You're gonna bite your tongue bloody if you have to, and pray besides. Gave up on the Maker awhile back, but since He keeps fucking with you and yours, might as well let Him know how you feel about it.

     He turns to you after a moment of silence, sullen, resentful. "You have shaken it off entirely?"

     You nod. "Took a long time. Near-on a year, altogether, before a day passed when I didn't want to shank somebody for a bit of dust." And you were only on lyrium for maybe five years, after you rose from recruit to knight when you were twenty-three. Cullen was on it twice that long. It'll be rougher, a longer time of trial, for him.

     He turns away, pacing, pacing. He looks a bit like a mabari who hasn't yet decided whose throat it needs to tear out in order to set the world to rights. "You were -- itinerant, after you left the Gallows." Such a nice word for "homeless." "Or did you go to the Amell manor?"

     That's never been your home. "No. Got out of Kirkwall. I know too many people there who could've, would've, given me lyrium. I'd weaned myself enough that I thought I could do without entirely. Without losing my faculties, that is." That was true. What you hadn't figured on was still enduring a brutal, mind-blurring nightmare of cravings and pain and illness, for months. "It got bad."

     Pace. Pace. "How did you endure it? Ah, but you are strong."

     You smile a little. "Not that strong. I found the kids, see. Don't know if I could've done it without them."

     "What?"

     You take a deep breath. "You can't go through this alone, Cullen. You need someone to talk you down. Someone to watch over you when the shakes get bad or the pain makes you double over." You swallow. You're offering, even if you don't say it. "You need a... a reason to keep going."

     He laughs. There's an edge to it. You know what's coming, then, and you brace yourself. Still not enough. "Well. You _left_."

     Fuck. Fuck. That hurts. Worse because it's true. You left because he wasn't there when you needed him, but the bottom line is still that you left. You said you wouldn't, and then you did. Now you get stupid, see, 'cause you're hurting. "I'm... I'm here _now_ , Cull."

     "You think I could trust you?" Pace. Pace. The mabari bares its teeth in a feral smile, clenches its mailed fists. "I asked you to stay with me, Carver. To help me. You said you _loved_ me."

     "I did." It's faint. You do.

     "And you showed it by abandoning me? Maker's Breath, if I didn't know you weren't stupid..." He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. You just sit there, taking it. "If I didn't know you weren't stupid, I would forgive you. Stupidity cannot be helped. You, though, you knew what forcing me to choose between you and my duty would mean. You _knew_."

     You knew. "I couldn't."

     "What?"

     You flinch at the whip of his voice. Take a deep breath. Try to be articulate for once, you dolt. "I _couldn't_. Stay. Keep... doing what Templars do. The duty, the routine, following the law when the world was coming apart... That gave _you_ comfort, but _I_ was coming apart." That was what it had felt like. "Little pieces of me, every time we made some mage Tranquil or, or I looked at the dormitory where Meredith's boys killed the children, just _stabbed_ a bunch of _toddlers_ , and some of those knights I still had to look in the eye and not tear their throats out with my bare hands -- " You swallow. It hurts. "I needed to know that I was part of something _good_ , Cull. I needed more!"

     "More than me." Cullen's stopped pacing now. He's standing right in front of you. You feel his gaze bearing down on you, and you can't meet it.

     "I wanted you to come with me -- "

     "But you didn't _stay_!" He hisses the last word.

     You make yourself look up at him. He's haggard, furious. You know you deserve every dram of his hate.

     "No," you say, very softly. "I didn't."

     Five breaths. You count them. Yours, hitching now and again. His, too rapid and erratic.

     "Get out," he says.

     You turn to go. At the door you stop. Swallow. Make yourself say it. "I... I meant what I said. I'm here _now_ , Cull, for..." For whatever that is worth. "If you want me, I think... I _know_ I can be what you need now. I can help you through this." It's different, if he's left the Order, gone off the lyrium. _He's_ different. Now you don't have to destroy yourself to love him.

     He's turned away, one fist braced against the bookcase, his head down. Ignoring you.

     It was a weak, useless thing to say, anyway.

#

     You look for your children, who are far better anchors for you than the bit of green magic lodged in your hand.

     Lem's playing -- actually playing, like a normal child -- with a knot of children down in the lower courtyard. Hide-and-find, looks like, abetted by Blackwall, who's promised the winner a whittled toy horse. Malon's deep in a discussion about Veil theory with Dorian. He's perched on the railing near Dorian's library nook, which makes your stomach clench, though you know he's been thieving to survive for years and can walk a clothesline like it's made of bricks. You pass through Solas' little art gallery on your way from Cullen's, and he's muttering to himself in some elvish-sounding language, listening to them. By this you gather Malon is right about something, and Dorian is wrong, but Dorian has trumped the whole conversation by calling Malon a barbarian, and now they're discussing -- amid Malon's giggles and Dorian's deliberate melodrama -- what actually constitutes barbarism where magic is concerned. Poor Baldy.

     You go looking for Konsie and find her singing some atrocious song with the Chargers. Most of them are drunk, and she might be too, which probably makes you a shitty father, but she's in a safe place with safe people so hopefully she'll learn her lesson from the hangover.

     All your children are busy enjoying themselves, carefree for the first time in a long time. Wouldn't be right for you to burden them with your troubles. You're not _complete_ shit as a parent.

     Conveniently, the Iron Bull calls you over and puts something in your hands that smells flammable. You drink half of it before you realize it's horrid, and then you choke and splutter while he laughs and tells you something about masturbation and how dragons need to be put down because they're wild and disorderly.

     "Huh," you say, taking another swig of the shit in your mug. You're pretty soaked, though you don't want to admit it. "Yeah. Wild things. Untrustworthy. Messing up everything. Best to just -- " You make a gesture across your throat and an evocative sound. It sounds hilarious, even though it probably isn't. You laugh. "Better for everyone, yeah? Can't fuck up anyone else's lives, then."

     Bull's been looking at you oddly all along. "Well, the wild things could also be tamed," he says. "Sometimes that's wrong. For a dragon, it would be. Against its nature. For people, though? People can learn to fit within boundaries, especially if it makes them better. That's the whole idea behind the Qun, see."

     "Well. Maybe I need the fucking Qun, then." You figure Bull will backhand you off the stool or something if it's blasphemous to refer to the belief system of his people as _the fucking Qun_.

     The Bull's silent for a moment. Finally he leans over and says, "Let's head up to your room for a talk, kadan. Man to man."

     You figure this means sex. Everybody wants to ride the Bull, yeah? You don't, not really, but you wouldn't mind getting laid by _somebody_ ; it's been awhile. So you laugh unsteadily and set the mug down and stagger toward your room, while the Chargers yell disappointed complaints that Bull is leaving and a few whistle in an innuendo-ish way. Probably starting fifty rumors by doing this. Doesn't matter. You get up into your tower and the unbelievably fancy room they've given you with the Free Marcher bed that you hate, and you flop across the bed, waiting for Bull's weight and the oblivion of pleasure.

     He does lie down, beside you, pulling you close with one big arm. "So, want to talk about it?"

     You think, _Talk about sex?_ You say, "Huh?"

     He shrugs. The whole castle seems to shake. "Just saying that's a mighty big weight of sad you're carrying around, kadan. Things not working out with you and the Commander?"

     You freeze, looking up at him. Even Leliana doesn't seem to have realized you and Cullen have History, not just history. "How'd you know?"

     "Ben Hassrath, remember? The way he looks at you, when you're not looking. The way you look at him, all the time." Bull's hand smooths down your back. It reminds you of the way Cullen used to do that, soothing you when you were lying together reverberating in the wake of something awful, and you suddenly feel your throat tighten. "Pretty obvious you love each other."

     You swallow. "Not enough."

     "Well, neither of you seems to have gotten the memo on that. Anyway, I figured it wouldn't be a good thing for the Inquisition to see its leader crying into his mug, 'cause I'm pretty sure that's where you were headed. Now no one else will see. So, you need a cuddle, here I am."

     "A _cuddle_?" You frown up at him. "What about a shag, though? Everybody says your dick's amazing."

     "Well, it is, but mine's not the dick you really want. And what you _need_ is a cuddle." He stretches back, pats the vast mountainous landscape of his chest. "Maybe a good cry, even, right here."

     It's... ridiculous. So of course now you're blinking hard, and your throat's too tight to speak through. You spend a moment trying to marshall your emotions. "Don't need a sodding cry."

     "Really? My mistake, then." Bull tucks an arm under his head, comfortable, as if he's prepared to lie there all night. "The lyrium withdrawal's pretty bad, isn't it? Looks like it's eating him alive."

     "Better than the stuff itself," you say. It's true. You liked being on lyrium; it made you feel powerful. But being off it, you feel stronger yet. Strength from inside you, not from the vial.

     "True. Probably makes you feel like death, though, coming off it. Makes you say things you don't mean. Hang on to little hurts like they're big, or old hurts that should've faded."

     You bite your lip.

     "Maybe even makes you see love wrong. People say, 'Let me help you,' and it feels like a slap in the face. Is that what it's like?"

     Were you in withdrawal when you left Cullen? Maker, you must have been. "Yeah," you whisper.

     "Thing is." Bull sighs, comfortable. He's probably about to fall asleep. "The people who tried, when you were in the worst of it... you remember them, right? Later, when your head's clearer. You remember what was said. That they were there for you. That they cared. It matters _then_ , if not in the moment."

     You remember the kids saying and doing things when you were in the worst of it. Lem making little light animals dance in front of you, to take your mind off the cramping. Malon going off to pinch food for everybody when you were too ill to go find work. Konsie cleaning you up when you had the vomits, and patiently enduring it while you cursed her and called her Bethany by accident. Once you even went so far as to call her _Garrett_.

     You said you were sorry later. They forgave you. You love them that much more for the trial endured and surpassed.

     "I just." You have to swallow again. "I didn't mean." Is that snot? Fuck, that's snot. You scrape a sleeve across your nose. "He's right. I left him. But I'm right too, I _needed_ to leave him. What the fuck am I supposed to do with _both_ of us being right? Huh?"

     Because you can't even apologize. That you would do, if you could. That would be _easy_. But you can't really say you're sorry when... you did what you had to do.

     The Bull's silent so you blather on. "And now he needs me but he doesn't _want_ me -- " You sniff back more. Scrub at your eyes. You're _not_ fucking crying. You're a warrior and you're almost thirty and you're an ex-Templar and an ex-soldier and an ex-mercenary and the fucking Herald of Andraste. You don't cry. "But I want _him_ , I've always wanted him, Maker I thought maybe I could just be his friend but I _want_ him, sodding _miss_ him, and what do I do? How do I -- make it right -- ?"

     Bull's arm around you pulls, just a little. You fall onto his chest like it's a raft upon the Waking Sea. There, safe, you cry until your bones ache.

#

     And the next day, your shit-eating brother shows up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't already guessed, this is a thoroughly rivaled Templar!Carver -- the kind of relationship you get if you play DA2 and smack him down for being angry about Bethany's death, don't take him into the Deep Roads, don't give him the letters from Tobrius, and never accept his reasons for joining the Templars. All of which this Hawke did.

     Should've known when Varric got extra cagey. Should've guessed when everything in your life went wrong that it meant an ill wind was blowing your way. You don't hate your brother, probably. You don't think. Stood up for him when Meredith went after him, didn't you? But that's because he's family, and that's what family's supposed to do. You'd stand for Gamlen, if the canny old coot ever needed it; doesn't mean you're best buds. And in Garrett's case, means the exact opposite.

     "The fuck do you want," you say, coming down the steps of the tower rooftop where Garrett has oh-so-dramatically ensconced himself.

     "Well, hello to you, too, Carver. Still alive, I see? Not that I've heard a word from you for three years or so." Garrett spreads his arms dramatically. He looks older and haggard and filthy with road-dust. Same wry smirk, though, and probably the same tendency to make jokes at inappropriate times until he loses his temper. Then he gets mean. Definitely the same self-absorption.

     "You're the one who disappeared first," you say. "Not like you left an address for me to send a letter. Where'd you go, off to play house with your abomination?"

     Garrett sighs. "I don't bother you about your love-life, Carver, such as it is. Though I hear you're into Qunari now? That's new."

     Sodding _Varric_. "Nobody I've slept with has blown up the fucking Grand Cleric, so talk all you like." You stop more than an arms' length away. "What. Do you. Want."

     He sighs, but thankfully gets to the point. Gray Wardens missing in action, doing mysterious shit, hunting one of their own. Garrett knows a rebel Gray Warden -- not that one, another -- who can give you answers. Got to go to Crestwood to meet him, right right.

     "You couldn't have sent this in a letter?" you demand.

     "There are eyes everywhere, Carver."

     "Right, I know, that's why I've got a fucking _spymaster_. You couldn't have given this to her people? Easier to keep a letter secret than bloody _you_."

     "Maybe I wanted to see you," he suggests. You snort in naked disbelief. He looks annoyed. "You disappear for years, then turn up as the Inquisitor, Carver. I didn't know what to think. I still don't, but at least I'm glad you finally came to your senses about the Templars."

     It's the wrong time. Your eyes are still puffy and stinging from the previous night. Cullen's voice is still raw in your head, flensing your thoughts. You spent the walk here trying to tell yourself to keep your temper, try to be the grownup, try to be decent; in this instant it all goes to shit.

     "Really want to know how I've been? Truly? Not just talking out of your arse?" You step forward. Get in his face. He doesn't back down, of course; he's never backed down to you. Matter of pride or something. But you hold up your hand, letting him see the mark, and he twitches a little. Maybe he thought you were going to hit him? Or maybe, since he's a mage, he's getting a whiff of just how strange is the magic that's infested your body. You hold the hand still. Let him get a good thorough look.

     "This is probably gonna kill me," you say. Your voice is low and cold. You're _so_ angry. "It's better since we shut down the Breach, and I keep it quiet by sealing rifts. But when I don't, it digs into my bones, eats its way up my veins. I'm a bloody Templar; I can _tell_ when magic's doing harm. Nobody says anything to me about it. Baldy -- that's our expert in rift magic -- thinks I don't notice him pitying me. Maybe the others don't realize. But I fucking _know_. One day we're gonna run out of rifts. Then this eats me alive."

     He's frowning. "Carver..."

     You ride over him. "And I'm all right with that. I know I was named for Maurevar Carver -- yeah, Tobrius told me, even though _you never bothered_ to show me Father's letters. I know my legacy, and if I go out like a true Templar, kicking fucked-up magic in the teeth, I'll be happy. But you need to know: this was supposed to be _you_." You slap your chest, and the handsome gold-buttoned fine clothes they've given you, which suit you like cow's clothes. "Cassandra and Leliana wanted _you_ as Inquisitor. Varric wouldn't give you up, then here I come with this hand, so they settled for me. And I'll do it, because that's been my fucking _life_ : taking on the shit work you're too special for. Ostagar. Taking care of Mother while you went off to the Deep Roads. Kirkwall, after your abomination, and now the fucking world after this war. _Cleaning up your mess._ You want to know what to think about me being the Quizzie? Think, 'Could've been me,' and then _thank fucking Andraste_ for Varric."

     Garrett looks like he works through several thoughts in the pent silence that falls. He decides to go with, "Well. Good talk, then."

     "Yeah. Glad you're still alive. See you in Crestwood." Then you leave him, and head for the armory to pull Cassandra off Varric before she kills him, like you know you're going to have to.

     Crestwood's rainy and infested with undead and bandits. You deal with that. It's got another dragon. You deal with that. Its people are starving and half-drowned and besieged; you handle all of it, 'cause that's what you do. It takes days. Hawke's Warden friend is hiding in a dank cave; you meet with him and realize now you've got to go to fucking war against the Wardens. Just your luck.

     You bring this to your advisors and start planning the attack. Cullen is back to his old, cold self -- briskly professional with you in the War Room, turning his back on you the rest of the time. He's still looking like shit, which is at least a good thing in one respect: he hasn't started back on the lyrium. Otherwise, it's shit. Everything's shit. Your brother's here in your castle and your life has gone to shit. _Of course_.

     Cassandra asks to speak to you in the armory one night. She's uncomfortable when you find her, shifting from foot to foot and not meeting your eye, and you're not sure why. You'd thought you and she were becoming friends. But you get it -- oh, shit do you get it -- when she finally lets out a harsh breath and says, "Truth between us. Are you and Cullen an item?"

     Sod it all. She's had the sweets on you all this time, and you hadn't a clue. Why you? You didn't think you were the type she liked at all. Not a bit of poetry in you. You just treat her like she matters, 'cause she does, and like you have some fucking manners, 'cause you do.

     The question's rough, too. You sigh and rub a hand over your hair. "We used to be. Back in Kirkwall. Now, though..." You spread your hands.

     You watch her flex through disappointment, frustration, amazement, and finally to resignation. You hope you and she can still be friends after this. She confirms that you can be, and floors you besides, by saying, "I need you to try again."

     "Whuh," you manage.

     She looks annoyed and explains. "You're aware that Cullen is trying to break free of his lyrium addiction."

     Boy are you. "Yeah?"

     She begins to pace. "For a time, Cullen seemed to be... holding. Earlier today, however, he came and asked me to find a replacement for him, as Commander of the Inquisition."

     It's a gut punch. On multiple levels. "There's gonna be a _battle_. We march for Adamant _tomorrow_."

     "Yes. Which tells you how strongly he feels that his judgment and focus have been compromised." She sighs. "But I said no. We had an agreement long before you joined us; as a Seeker I could evaluate the danger. He _can_ do this." She pauses. "He said that you had done it. That you'd told him it could not be done alone, yet he _was_ alone."

     "Oh, Void," you groan. You've made it worse. Of _course_ you've made it worse.

     "Yes." She shakes her head. "You are correct, mind you. He needs help to get through the withdrawal -- and he knows this. It is why he consults with me. But I am not enough, and I believe he is beginning to falter. He will hold for the battle; I know this. Adrenaline and willpower sustain him, along with concern for his soldiers. After, though? That will be the test." She turns to face you, hand braced on her sword. You think that's habit, not a threat. "I have seen you avoiding him. This cannot continue."

     Maker. You sit down on a nearby bench. Look at your hands. "I... I don't know how to fix it, Cass. I _tried_ , see. That's what's made things worse."

     She glowers. "Do you love him?"

     You nod slowly, then unnecessarily add, "Yeah." More than life. Like tide and time. What you feel for him just _is_ , a thing undeniable, a force of nature.

     She lets out a deep breath. "Then are you not the Inquisitor? Do nations not leap to appease your will? Are you not bringing order to Thedas at the point of a sword?"

     Oh, for fuck's sake. "You want to play some heroic music, too? Bring in a bloody choir?"

     That does it. Cassandra marches over, grabs you by the front of the shirt, and hauls you up. Dear Maker, she's strong. "Let me put it this way," she snarls. "If he returns to lyrium because of you, I will _kill_ you."

     You want to laugh. (You don't, 'cause she'll fucking beat you.) But. It's not funny. Not really.

     "If he goes back on lyrium because of me," you say, "I'd sodding _let_ you."

     She blinks in surprise. Lets you go. Nods.

     You feel her stare against your back as you head off to say goodbye to your children.

#

     Adamant Fortress is like Ostagar: blood and fire and betrayal. Cullen's a sodding beacon throughout, his sword high and his voice a pillar supporting the whole army. You're glad to fight at his side again even in this small way. Even if he does not look at you.

     Stroud's wrong about how fucked up the Wardens are. It isn't just that Clarel's stupid as shit. It's that so many of her fellows _go along with_ her stupidity. What's happened to them? Individual Wardens are supposed to be a law unto themselves, not sodding sheep following wherever the loudest goes. You remember hearing about how the last Wardens of Ferelden, King Alistair and that Dalish woman, single-handedly went up against a whole nation that didn't want to believe there was a Blight, didn't want to believe the Blight was that bad, didn't want to believe its brightest general was fucked in the head. They saved Ferelden because they stood for what was right, no matter what their countrymen thought, or even their fellow Wardens -- most of whom were hanging out at Weisshaupt, just waiting for Ferelden to fucking _die_ rather than defy Loghain. _What happened_ that they can't bloody think for themselves anymore?

     You're so mad about the whole thing that fighting a fake archdemon barely dents your mood. Clarel finally catches a clue as she's dying and uses blood magic to deal the thing a blow that would be mortal to any normal dragon; no telling if it does this one in, but at least it falls. But then the landing is crumbling, and Garrett turns back for Stroud and you turn back for him -- _fucking idiot!_ \-- and you fall and your mark flares and you don't _mean_ to suck yourself into the sodding Fade --  


     -- but --

     -- as you're tumbling, and before the green takes you --

     -- you see him. Cullen.

     He's supposed to be down on the ground level, not up here on the ramparts. But, well, you cleaned the ramparts off, so maybe that's why. His sword's in his hand, and his shining armor is splattered with some unlucky fool's blood. Maker, doesn't he look fine? Built for battle. Amazing that he is so tender in loving, so thoughtful, so gentle. You remember a night, the anniversary of your mother's death, when you took out Gamlen's letter to re-read. (Had to be Gamlen, because Garrett was too much of a shit to talk to you himself.) You were restless, confused, unhappy. You asked him to fuck you and take your mind off it. Instead he spoke to you of how much he admired you, how noble and strong you were, how he wishes he could have met your mother because surely such nobility and strength must have come from her. By the end of it you were weeping in his arms, because that was what you really needed and he bloody knew it. Long before the Bull, _Cullen_ took care of you.

     You fall into the green and his face is a rictus of shock and horror as you do.

#

     _Then_ it gets ugly.

     The fear demon sends not-spiders and deep-voiced taunts, and it dangles your own memories before you like candy. Makes you work for every one of 'em, even though they're _yours_ , they're sodding yours, and it's a sodding thief. Most of the memories you fight to win are things you need but don't want: what really happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, how you ended up with the Anchor, what happened to the Divine.

     A few of the memories, though, are things you don't need, but that mean everything to you. It doesn't make you work for those. Just drops them into you now and again, to fuck with you. The way Bethany's arms used to feel when she hugged you. Your mother stroking your face once, when you had a fever; Maker, you must have been small, because her hand feels so big and strong. Garrett. Carrying you on his back, somewhere. You didn't even know you remembered that. Wonder when that was.

     Then. Oh, then. This fucking thing.

     It gives you back a memory of Cullen smiling. Nothing really intimate. Just him sitting in front of you, at his desk, smiling in the shy way he had back then. You remember the context of this. You'd just passed your vigil to become a full Templar. You'd reported to him. Asked to serve under him, in his combat unit, if he would have you. You weren't really in love with him at the time. Liked him lots, though. You said, "I'm your man, ser, for whatever you need." And he'd smiled. Blushed a bit. Belatedly you'd realized what that sounded like... but you didn't take it back. You just grinned and blushed too.

     You remember the moment, but you'd forgotten _the smile_. That smile's fucking _important_. It's the first time you made him think about you as something other than a callow recruit. Maybe even the first time he thought about you _that way_.

     Fear stole this from you. It stole your Bethy and it stole your mother and it stole Garrett not being a dick, and it stole your Cullen. Not even really to hurt you. It's trying to scare you, warn you that it can take whatever it wants from you without you even knowing.

     Stupid beshitted thing does _not_ know who the fuck it's playing with.

     The spirit-Divine does her thing and gets you to the exit. The Fear is there, huge and spiderlike, grotesque in its puckered, things-moving-in-holes, too-many-bloody-legs way. It chitters, it skitters, it looks like shit. Then it shimmers and shudders and steps back, like it's gotten a taste of something bad. You know why. You stand before it and you are not afraid. You're fucking _furious_ , in fact.

     "We need to clear a path," says Stroud, in his mournful Orlesian voice.

     "Go," says Garrett. You hear the resignation in his voice, the weight. Been there all along, hasn't it? Still guilty over slipping it to the abomination that tried to destroy Kirkwall, probably. Now he's thinking noble self-sacrifice will make up for his shitty taste in men. "I'll cover you."

     They start arguing, honest-to-the-Maker, about which of them gets to commit suicide. The Fear's dozens of eyes flick between them and you. None of you are afraid of it, really. Poor fucking monster.

     "Both of you, shut it," you snarl at them. The Fade ripples around you. You sheath your sword, rack your shield. "I'm gonna clear the path. Get to the bloody rift when I do."

     "Carver, don't be daft," Garrett begins. Patronizing to the end. "It can't be you who stays. You're the only one who can close rifts -- "

     "I said _shut up_." Maybe he finally listens to you. Maybe he just hears that you're done. You're fucking done. This thing has stolen _your life_ from you, did it to _play_ with you, and you will not tolerate its existence any longer. The Fade bucks and ripples again, shivering in the wake of someone else's will reshaping it away from what the Fear wants. The surroundings don't change, but you do. The armor you're wearing ripples and takes on a new configuration. The emblem on your chest is a sword amid flames. When you step forward, red-gold robes swirl about your silverite-plated feet.

     You change, and the Fade must acknowledge it even here in the heart of a demon's realm, because this is what you are, at the bone. Even if the Templars aren't worthy of you anymore. Even without the lyrium. You follow Maurevar's creed, not that of some piddly old lady in Val Royeaux. You've always known what it took Cullen years to fathom: that it is a Templar's job not to be some sort of glorified prison warden, but to use everything you've got _including_ magic to stand against all that is evil.

     " _And never sodding falter_ ," you snarl. Then you Holy Smite the living shit out of the Fear.

     Its screams shake the Fade. The ground buckles as its grip on the realm falters. To negate magic, here in this place that is nothing but magic, is dangerous, you know. You don't fucking care, though. This thing has to go.

     Garrett grabs Stroud, and both of them book it for the exit rift. Got a little sense left; good. You stalk forward, Smiting the Fear again, and again, and again. _This_ for stealing from you. _That_ for all the shit it talked. _This_ for just being ugly.

     And when it has crumpled and lies mewling before you, its jaws trying to work but doing so only feebly, you finally draw your sword again, and drive it deep into what might be the thing's brain. Might not be, but you _think_ it is, and in this place, that's what matters. Never needed Baldy's sodding lectures. You're a Templar. You're a _Hawke._ You know how this shit works.

     The Fear goes limp and shrivels into nothing. Maybe something of it will return one day, but it won't be the same Fear, and _this_ Fear won't be fucking with anybody anymore. Satisfied, you turn and head out through the rift, dropping back into the Adamant courtyard. You seal it, then while everyone's still cheering for you, you tell Stroud and the Wardens to disband and join the Inquisition where somebody with sense can oversee them if they're not going to look after themselves. Garrett tries to say something to you -- something complimentary, you think; he looks impressed. You ignore him. Stopped craving his approval a long time ago.

     You brush past all of them and head for the fortress exit. You want to go home. Walk all the way by yourself if you have to.

     "Carver!"

     Cullen. Coming down off the ramparts, sheathing his sword as he trots the steps. Felt like days in the Fade, but it's only been minutes since he saw you fall into a hole in the air. The people milling about the courtyard part for him, and for the first time since Garrett showed up, the beat of anger within you falters. You stop and he jogs up to you, face alight, and you _love_ him, you fucking love him so much, just bloody look at him.

     He stops short, mindful of the crowd around you, and suddenly awkward now that he's shown you how much he still cares. "Ah... Inquisitor," he begins. "I am. Ah. Relieved to see you well. When you fell into the Fade, I..."

     "Yeah," you say, drinking in his face. He's talking to you again. You can't think of anything else.

     He ducks his gaze away for a moment, then catches a glimpse of your red robes and stares. His eyebrows rise. "Your armor..."

     You glance down in surprise to see that it's still the Templar armor you manifested about yourself. Well, demons stay real in this world, so why not armor? "Oh. Yeah. Um. I'll take it off, once we're back at Skyhold."

     His expression grows solemn, with a hint of approval. This is happening in front of shit-tons of people and you don't care. You can't see anything but him. "The Fade shows you your truest self. The armor will be there, still, even if you take it off." Softer: "Your oath to the Order remains true in all the ways that matter."

     "Yeah, maybe," you say. You're talking soft too, because this moment is fragile. You start fidgeting, afraid you're going to fuck it up somehow, but he seems to expect an answer. "I... I guess so."

     Cullen glances around at your audience with an opaque look. "I have the aftermath of a battle to attend, and I'm sure you have duties as well. But... later, back in Skyhold, let us speak of this further."

     You can't think of any duties. "Yeah. Uh. Yeah. Um. Carry on."

     He looks fleetingly amused by your inarticulate stammering. You want to kiss him. He walks away and it hurts.

     Garrett's staring at you with narrowed eyes after Cullen leaves. The Wardens are all glancing at each other like, _Can you believe this romantic shit is happening while we're coming apart?_ Right, okay, that's probably just in your head. Anyway. Demon army's done. Stupid Orlesian fuckery up next. And --

     _Later, back in Skyhold, let us speak of this further._

     Your team falls in around you. Sera and the Bull and Dorian. They all know. Bull pokes you in the shoulder and you flash a big stupid grin at him. He holds a thumb up. Sera makes a kissy noise. You hope she's right.

     You start home past rows of corpses and around smoldering fires, with a little skip in your step as you go.


	7. Chapter 7

     A few days after the army returns from Adamant, you go find Cullen in his tower.  He's busy as usual, talking to one of his aides, and you note that he looks better today, in a weary sort of way.  That's familiar.  That's good.  He's still off the lyrium.  There will be good days and bad days for a while, you know from experience, and this is probably one of the good days.  One day, it'll be nothing but good days.  Cullen looks like a man who's finally figuring this out.

     You settle against the wall and wait.  Presently he sees you, and pauses.  You figure he'll finish up with the aide first, priorities being priorities, but he dismisses the aide summarily.  The woman wanders off, glancing at you in confusion, clearly thrown by the abruptness of the whole thing.

     You walk out onto the ramparts with him, overlooking the valley that surrounds Skyhold.  He's moving smoothly, coolly; you're starting and stopping, fidgeting, nervous as shit.  "Nice, uh, nice day," you say.

     He sighs and stops beside one of the pillars of stone.  "Don't be foolish, Carver.  There's no need for small talk between us."

     "Oh, thank the Maker."  You slump against the pillar.  "Look, Cull, I, I just have to know, is there -- can we -- "  You rub at your hair.  Sodding hair.  You swallow and take a deep breath and say what you've been thinking for weeks.  "I want to be with you again, Cull."

     He doesn't reply immediately, which makes your guts clench up like you've got the gripe.  Then he says, "I would like that, too."

     Fuck fuck fuck fuck _yes_.  You swallow again and reach hesitantly for Cullen's hand.  He lets you take it.  Yes fuck yes.  And then he turns to you, and he's close, and you smell again that soap he likes, the stuff with green tea in it, been jerking off to the smell of tea for three sodding years now and please Maker is he going to kiss you?  He leans in.

     "Commander."  It's one of his aides.  Cullen stiffens.  You stare at the man, incredulous, but he doesn't see.  Looking at the report, not the sodding _moment_ that he's _interrupting_.  "You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report."

     " _What_ ," Cullen growls.  But the man's still blathering, and instead of just saying _go away_ Cullen seems content to just glare at the fellow until the obliviousness evaporates.

     You can't take it.  "The shit is _wrong_ with you?"  you demand, pushing away from the pillar.  The aide starts, finally noticing you there and paling as he does.  He actually starts backing away.  Damn right he should.  "Is your head _completely_ up your -- "

     "Oh, for the love of the Maker," Cullen mutters, and then he turns and kisses your mouth shut.

     It's.  So good.  He's chaste about it.  Both of you have stuck tongues into far more intimate parts before, but he keeps it firmly on this side of non-vulgarity.  Just tastes you.  Plays your lips apart with his own.  He tastes the same.  Maybe a little different?  No lyrium aftertaste on his lips.  But _him_ , that part, that's what you remember.  That's what you've needed all along.

     When he lets it end, the aide's gone.  Stupid arse probably fled from the combined wrath of the Inquisitor and the Commander, or maybe he jumped off the ramparts.  You don't fucking care.

     Cullen sighs and sets his forehead against yours.  That's familiar, too.  So's this weight, as he leans against you.  So's this warmth.  You put your hands on his breastplate and wish he didn't have any armor on.  "There," he says.  His voice is soft.  His eyes are shut.  "Do try not to abuse my aides, Carver.  I depend on their durability."

     "Wankers," you say softly.  Hard to hate 'em, though, now.  Here's your Cullen.  Right here.

     He chuckles.  It's low and rich and makes your cock twitch.  "Maker help me, you haven't changed."  This time you know it's not an insult.  "I have missed you."

     You lick your lips and taste him.  "Make up for lost time, maybe?"  You glance toward his tower.  He's got a bed in there somewhere, up the ladder maybe.

     Cullen takes a deep breath -- and steps away.  What?  You frown, worried, bereft.  Where's he going?  "No," he says gently.  "I am... sorely tempted.  But I have duties, and..."  His face grows solemn.  "I've spent years thinking you betrayed me, Carver."

     "I did."  You blurt it.  It's true.  You need to be true now.  "I left."

     Cullen's gaze has grown heavy.  "And yet you were right.  The Templars, as they are... well, we all see now what they've become.  You were right to leave when you did.  I _should_ have gone with you -- and the regret that I did not is why I finally did leave the Order when Cassandra asked." 

     "Should've waited for you," you say.  But he shakes his head.

     "If you had remained, I might never have gone."  He looks away, in shame.  "Carver... your leaving was the spark I needed to change my life.  That you would feel so strongly as to give up what we had...  I could no longer deny the truth, then.  And the lyrium."  His expression tightens.  You reach for his hand again, on impulse, because you need to touch him.  He doesn't shake you off, which means he needs your touch.  "The truth of the matter is that I obeyed Meredith for as long as I did, looked the other way from atrocities for as long as I did, kept acting against the dictates of my conscience for as long as I did, because I feared to lose my lyrium.  I thought Meredith would cut me off.  When we mutinied, I felt we needed to keep to the law, harsh as it was, so that the Chantry would take us back -- and supply us again."  He grimaces.  "So I have proven you right, there, too."

     "It's not about what's _right_ ," you say, squeezing his hand to try and make him see it.  But he turns to you, and your heart stops because his eyes meet yours.

     "Yes, it is.  We are men driven by righteousness at our core.  That's why we ended up here, in the Inquisition.  I cannot believe that was mere coincidence."  He smiles.  Your whole body aches at the sight.  "Perhaps the Maker meant it."

     "Maker must be pretty sodding bored to come back to the world just for us," you say.  It's weak.  He's so religious.  You're worried he'll take offense.  You're worried you'll sneeze.  This _has_ to get fucked up somehow, because that's how your life has always gone.

     He smiles, though.  "Yes.  He must be.  I am grateful nevertheless."  He lifts a hand.  Strokes your cheek with the backs of his knuckles.  You want to sing.

     "Wh -- "  Have to swallow.  "What now, then?  If you don't want to...?"

     He blinks, laughs a little, blushes.  You _love_ his blushes.  "I think I had forgotten how _physical_ you are.  Maker, I may be too old for you, now."  That's bullshit.  You'll show him, once he lets you.  Then he sobers again.  "I need time, Carver."

     "For bloody wh -- "  You stop and take a deep breath, and tell your dick to sit down.  "Right.  Time."

     He smiles again, but this time it's strained.  That's your explanation.  "I am... still angry with you, on some level.  It isn't rational, I will admit.  Yet the anger remains.  I've no idea what to do about it."

     Well.  Shit.  You shift again, uncomfortable this time for reasons other than being two-plus years' worth of horny.  Maybe...  You swallow.  "Maybe.  Uh.  Maybe we need to just... forget the past."

     Cullen looks skeptical.  "We were lovers for over a year, Carver.  I cannot forget that."

     Fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck.  "Yeah, I don't want to, either.  I just mean..."  You shrug.  "We've been apart more than we were together.  You're different."  You reach up and draw a thumb over that scar on his lip.  When he kissed you, it felt hard and strange, marring what should have been familiar.  Eh, you can get to like it, in time.  " _I'm_ sure as shit different, with three kids and a glowing hand.  We don't have to forget what was, but just... focus more on what we are _now_.  Start over."

     "Start over."  He's thinking about it.  "Just like that."

     "No, with a lot of saving the world in between.  But when there's time..."  You shrug.  "Yeah.  Start over."

     Cullen considers for a long while, gazing out over the landscape as he does.  You don't press.  It's nice just standing here beside him, feeling his warmth and knowing you can have more of it now.  Maybe it took you getting sucked into the Fade, and him getting off the lyrium, to fix things, but that's about par for the course for both of you.  Good to have standards, yeah?  With you and him, those standards are just _fuck everything_.

     Then he moves closer, and the stone pillar is cold beneath your back, and his mouth is sure and gentle upon yours.  Starting over's nice.

#

     The boys hear about it from the rumor mill, and tease you relentlessly when they come upstairs at night to jump on your bed and demand stories.  Konsie's not as bad, because she's older and she's heard you talk (well, sob) about Cullen in your cups or withdrawal fits.  She just says it's nice to see you smiling so much.  You hold her close and whisper _Thank you_ in her ear.

     Then it's off to Orlais, which you know is going to be a fuckshow long before you actually get there.  Poor Josie's nearly in hysterics over the idea of you at court.  You catch her watching your table manners (and groaning); she asks if you can stop saying "yeah" at the end of your sentences and you do it more on purpose (she groans); she offers to partner you in order to practice courtly dances, and you jump up and do a Ferelden jig instead.  Later Leliana comes and threatens that if you ever make Josephine run out of the room in tears again, Cullen won't ever see your mabari again.  Since you don't own a mabari except the one tattooed on your arse, you catch the hint and go apologize.

     And you really are sorry, 'cause she's genuinely upset.  Thing is, Josephine underestimates you, and that irks like all get out.  Right, so Orlesians are snitty about all sorts of foolishness, but does she really think _your mother_ would've let you grow facial hair before you knew your shrimp fork from your fish knife, and could dance the Remigold?  Leandra Amell never forgot that you and your sibs were nobility, even if you were living on a farm in the arse end of the Ferelden plains.  Just because you don't act right most of the time doesn't mean that's not a _choice_.

     So instead you choose to surprise her.  Even Dorian's impressed as you work the Winter Palace crowd, flattering this married baroness, petting that dukeling's little yap-dog, and handling that old chevalier's comment about the Winter Palace "going to the dogs" with a retort about dogs at least being more useful than spavined old warhorses.  (Old Fart gasps.  Ladies nearby titter into their fans.  One of them drops you a note asking for an assignation in a corner of the garden.  You win.  Also, you ignore the note.)  You play the caprice game even though you always thought it was stupid, just so they'll know you were raised right.  You eat little cakes that taste like anise and deep mushroom without making a face.  You flirt with the Dowager, which actually isn't hard because she's a stone hardass under all the flutter and powder, and you've always liked tough women.  Reminds you of Isabela, just more money and airs.  She's deeply amused and suggests maybe she should consider rounding out her collection of dead husbands to ten.  It's not a threat, as long as you don't actually marry her.

     It's only when you see Josephine's mouth fall open as you dance with the Grand Duchess and don't fall into any of her verbal traps -- she's nothing to your brother for that -- that you feel satisfied.  Maker, is it ever nice to make someone eat crow.

     But the real reward -- aside from showing up the Grand Duchess in front of the whole ballroom, and watching them haul off that grand duke who wants to attack Ferelden, oh and blackmailing Celene and Briala, you could get to like this sneaky shit -- is the look on Cullen's face when he sees you all fancied up.  You don't get much time to talk to him that evening.  He's cranky, because apparently some nobleman felt up his arse.  Still, his look says everything you can't.

     He comes to find you later, after all the schemes are revealed and the fans have fluttered, and he asks you to dance.  It's stupid.  You look like an idiot doing it with him, the two of you clumsy because you were both only taught how to lead, not follow.  Probably lose a bit of court approval. 

     Still... eventually you both figure it out, and together you turn in slow revolving circles beneath the waning moon.

#

     Your brother's still hanging about, as if he's surprised to find himself still alive after that whole business with the Wardens, so you start asking him to come with you on missions.  He refuses.  Other things to do, he says, but you know what's really wrong.  You're the lead, around here.  He'd have to follow you.  Neither of you is ready for that, so you're kind of glad he says he'll be leaving soon.

     Still, after Garrett comes up to your quarters and you stand on the balcony together for awhile, he grips your arm in a way that you sort of like.  Equal to equal, yeah?  He says, "You're turning out all right, Carver.  Finally."

     He's never gonna get any better at not being an arse, so you shake your head and say, "Yeah.  So are you.  _Finally_."

     That earns you a pair of impressively-raised eyebrows.  "Been that terrible, have I?  -- Don't answer that."  He grimaces a little in lieu of a smile.  You actually laugh.  "Ah, Void.  It's not what Mother wanted, the way we are."

     You shrug.  You both are who you are, and there's no changing that.  Maybe you don't have to be enemies, though.  "You really are leaving, then?  Going back to wherever you were?"

     "Yes.  Well, no.  I suppose I'll head back to Kirkwall and see if they want to string me up for abandoning the throne."  Garrett pauses.  It grows taut.  "Anders is dead."

     You stop yourself from saying six different things you shouldn't.  He's relaxed, his face unreadable; his voice was casual as he said it.  And yet you remember him being as gone on his apostate as you are on your Commander.  What would it feel like to lose Cullen? So, even though you think the real Anders died a long time ago and that it's for the best that he's kicked off completely now, you say, "Sorry."

     His face sort of ripples.  You realize, belatedly, that he was braced for you to say one of the six things.  Wasn't expecting sympathy.  But he apparently stops himself from saying a few fucked-up things back, because it floors you when he says, "Hang on to your Commander.  If you've got him now."

     Can this be more awkward.  "Working on it."

     He grunts acknowledgement.  Then -- it's like momentum.  Some things are hard to resist, even if you'd rather.  He reaches for you, and you reach back, and then you're hugging.

     He's gone before sunset.  Could be worse.

#

     Mood's weird that evening.  Varric's gloomy with Garrett gone.  With the demon army and Celene's assassination dealt with, now you've got a Witch of the Wild hanging out in your garden, telling you Corypheus' next move.  But after all the tension of Val Royeaux, you're thinking folks need a break. Varric proposes Wicked Grace.  You're not really feeling like a party, but somebody talks Cullen into it and that means you're in. 

     At first there's something stilted about the whole thing.  Desperate, maybe, like everybody really really wants to enjoy this even though it's not as spontaneous or heartwarming as it ought to be.  Bugs the shit out of you.  This is should be fun, not fake.  Only thing that could make it worse would be if Baldy decided to join in.

     So when you see Cullen stupidly challenge Josephine -- stupid, _stupid_ , doesn't he know anything about Antivans, can't he see the high gleam of mischief in her eyes? -- you decide to sweeten the pot.

     "His hand, _my_ loss," you declare.  She raises her eyebrows, and you know exactly what she's thinking.  It's gonna be a bloodbath.  But you grin, 'cause that's what you're expecting.  "What sort of leader would I be if I just let my commander take all the risks alone?"

     Cullen stares at you as if he thinks you've gone mad.  Others around the table are stifling snickers.  Bull sees what you're up to, though his expression is blandly pleasant.  Dorian's got a greedy look on his face.  Sera, thank the Maker, is pissy drunk; no one pays attention when she blows an especially vulgar-sounding raspberry. 

     "I prefer to take my own risks, Inquisitor," Cullen says.  He always defers to you like this in public.

     "'S more fun this way," you say.  "Ups the ante without upping the ante, see?"

     "How _romantic_ ," Josephine suggests, with a little girlish sigh.  "The Commander, playing for his Inquisitor's honor..."

     That does it.  She's good, your Josie.  Cullen gets a weird, fierce look on his face.  "Very well," he says, grinning.  "You're _on_ , Ambassador."

     It's perfect.  Now the smiles around the table are delighted, drunken, _real_.  Blackwall pounds the table.  "There's a proper wager at last!"  Varric's grinning at you almost as broadly as he does at Garrett, which is weird, but good.  Anyway.  It's better.

     Especially when Cullen loses so badly that you end up buck-arse naked.

     The Bull's nearly crying, he's laughing so hard.  Varric's covered his face.  Cullen's looking poleaxed, staring at his last losing hand as if wondering what in the Void happened.  Josephine reminds him that she _is_ Antivan; what was he thinking?  (She doesn't say it like that 'cause she's too diplomatic.  Still, it's there.)  Blackwall looks like he's glad _he_ wasn't stupid enough to go toe to toe with her.  Also like he wants to go off somewhere and wank.

     You?  You're laughing your naked arse off.  Your poor Cull; he tried so hard.  Up to you to save his dignity, yeah?  Or at least provide a suitable distraction from his humiliation.

     So you push back from the table.  "Well, too bloody warm in here anyway.  I'm gonna take a walk.  Nice night and all."  You get up and stretch.  The Bull has to put his head down on the table, or with the way he's knee-slap laughing, he's gonna gore somebody with his horns.  Blackwall nearly chokes on his beer, chortling; Josephine does too, with more grace.  Varric's smile is quiet and smug and you figure that's it, then, you've now landed yourself in a novel, probably with some ridiculous fake name like _Hacker McBigsword_.  Oh, well.  Cassandra covers her mouth with both hands and stares at your dick for a full three breaths before she realizes she's doing it, and then she covers her eyes too.  Dorian sips his wine and makes an appreciative remark about excellent hybrid-Freemarcher vintages that fools no one.

     Cull, though.  Oh, yeah.  He was appalled, at first.  Now, though, he's looking at you like he suddenly remembers that body used to be _his_ for the having.

     Well, _well_.  And you can't meet that gaze for too much longer, or you're gonna have even more of the little Inquisitor to show your friends.  So you scoop up your mug, down the remnants of the shitty ale you were drinking, and set it down.  "Josie, since you've got all my coin, do me a favor and tip the surly dwarf for me, will you?  I'm heading home."

     Josephine coughs, politely looking only at her (very fat) purse.  "Certainly, Inquisitor, and yes, I've more than enough to spare.  May I, ah, suggest a bucket, however?"

     "The fuck for?  Told you it was a nice night."  You roll your shoulders, flex your back.  "Figure I'll walk the mabari, and all."

     Blackwall stands and salutes, which is a feat given how sloshed he is.  "Junior," Varric says, "I was going to just make up a character for you, but I think you're about to earn yourself a whole _book_."

     "He wouldn't!" Cassandra says, from behind the shield of her hands.  "Th -- the dignity of the Inquisition -- "

     From beneath the table, Sera snorts.  "Don't know him so well, then, do you, Seeker Stabbytits?"

     So you set off, sauntering through Skyhold.  Most of the people who turn and stare at you, openmouthed, you haven't met.  The Inquisition's gotten big since the days of Haven, and there's no way you can know all of 'em, like Bull taught you.  Still, you wave to them, and a few manage return greetings of "Inquisitor?" or "Uhm..."  Scout Harding dissolves into giggles when you point jauntily at her and click your tongue.  Bonny Simms, coming up to see what the commotion's about, laughs and waves a handkerchief -- you think that's Orlesian for "good show" -- when you add a little extra sashay to your walk just for her.

     And behind you prowls Cullen.  You don't look back, but he's there, all right.  Feel him, don't you?  Like the sun against your skin.

     Up the steps, and at the top you turn and wave to the good people of the Inquisition.  One of the Orlesians is sketching frantically on a scrap of leather.  (Later you hear that the nude sketch sells for thousands in Val Royeaux.)  Vivienne, laughing, throws you a rose from her balcony; you miss catching it, but you pretend to grab the kiss she blows behind it.  That young Dalish bloke is looking around like he can't figure out what the joke is.  Skywatcher, the Avvar shaman, pulls him aside for a whisper.

     And there's Cullen, stopping on the steps below you.  His hands are on his hips, and a wry smile is on his face, but you see how his eyes linger.  Smile's not quite right, either.  Little bit of a put-on.  Cullen's not the laughing horny type, see.  When he wants, it's serious.

     "Are you quite finished, Inquisitor?" he asks.

     "Nope.  Haven't hit the whole castle yet.  Think Dagna wants a look?  Not that I think I'm her sort."  And actually, she might want to experiment on you.  "Maybe not Dagna."

     You turn to head in.  There's a smattering of additional applause at the display of your mabari.

     "This is ridiculous, Inquisitor," Cullen says.  You turn a circle as you walk the aisle that penitents use to stand before your throne of judgment. Got to make sure all the courtiers get an eyeful from every angle.  You're mindful of Josephine, though; you make sure to smile while they stare at your goods.  " _Carver._ "

     "What?"  You've reached the throne now, and you grin.  Gonna have to sit down carefully; the Inquisitor's throne isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, and your boys are delicate.

     He stops before the throne.  "Is it not -- _inappropriate_ for the Inquisitor to have so few secrets in the eyes of his people?"

     You glance back at him, sidelong.  "Why's that?  Josie says the Inquisitor's power comes from the people.  Might as well give them something back, yeah?"

     Cullen comes closer.  Someone in mage robes yells, "Make your mabari bark, ser!"  That makes Cullen wince.  He reaches up and pulls off his stole -- that thing he wears that's like a lion's mane about the shoulders, and which is connected to the cloth that drapes his torso armor.  It's like a little, furry, sleeveless jacket.  "Put this on."

     You stand hipshot, chin up, playing defiant.  "What if I don't want to?"

     He levels a look at you -- the sort of look that means he'll wrestle you into the bloody thing if he has to.  You sigh and make a show of holding up your arms, but it's a feint; when he steps forward, you try to run around him.  People in the hall whoop in delight.  Cull's got you, though.  Half a breath and he's scooped you into the stole and pressed you up against the wall beside your apartment door.  He's not smiling anymore, but he's not angry, either.  Just very, very _serious_.

     "You've made gossip enough for all of Thedan high society," he murmurs, low and just for you.  "If there were rumors about -- us -- before, they are known fact now."

     You shrug, breathless, grinning.  Maker, he'd better not take the stole off you now, because you'll have a whole new marvel to show your people.  Fucking _love_ it when he's like this, all pushy and full of want.  "This isn't the Gallows, Cull.  I want people to know I'm just a man, even if they also think I'm Andraste's chambermaid or whatever.  No good reason to pretend we're not _healthy_ men."

     Uncertainty there, even as in the throne room beyond you both, voices are cheering Cullen on, yelling _Get 'im Commander!_ and the like.  "There are always good reasons for that."

     You don't agree, but you say, "Maybe."  Your blood's racing.  You feel giddy, like you're back on lyrium.  You want him so much you're _high_ with it.  "Maybe you just ought to admit that what you really don't like is everybody putting an eye on what you think is yours alone."

     His hands are on you, through the cloth and the fur, hidden by the way he's braced against you.  Whatever shit he's talking, _those_ aren't being chaste.  One hand grips your hip, down low, long fingers splaying over one arse cheek through the cloth.  The other's on your belly, ostensibly holding the cloth together, but slowly inching its way downward.  And at the angle he's pressed against you, hips helping to keep you pinned against the stone, you can feel that he's not _thinking_ chaste thoughts, either.

     "That you are mine is no mere _thought_ ," Cullen says, his eyes boring into yours.

     Fuck, you're lightheaded.  You lick your lips.  "Better prove that, I'm thinking."

     He's on you almost before the sentence is done.  Mouth hard on yours, tongue _burrowing_ , sucking you into him.  His hand slides down and he gives you a stroke through the silk that's _perfect_ , because he remembers what you like:  a hard grip with a soft finish and a little twist 'round the tip.  You make some muffled sound at this.  He _lets go_ your mouth on purpose, you're sure of it, so the whole bloody hall will hear you trying not to gasp. Then he shunts his attention to the side of your neck, where he licks his way along the tendon up to your ear.  It's fire.  He's just licked oil over your nerves and set them on fire.

     "Oh, _fuck_ ," all of Skyhold hears you moan.

     He lets go your cock, takes your hand, and puts it on the latch of your apartment.  It isn't locked.  You've got guards and such watching who comes and goes.  But he says in your ear, "Let me in, Carver."

     Maker's.  Ruddy.  Swinging.  Cod.

     He lets you up, and you fumble frantically for the latch in your desperate fever, hyperaware of him there, barely aware of the crowd raising their fists in a cheer beyond you.  All you know is _fuck_ starting over, _fuck_ needing time, he's your Cullen and he wants you and you _need_ him, right bloody now.

     Then you finally get the damned door open, and he pushes you -- or you pull him -- inside.

 


	8. Chapter 8

     Fire's nice and stoked.  The night is still young. And Cullen's fucking you blind on your own desk.

     He's deep in it.  (You'd laugh at the double play if you had any breath in you.)  Got an arm hooked under your knee.  Lots of oil to smooth the way.  Softened you up good and proper, he did, with his voice and his tongue and his fingers, like maybe he knew you hadn't had a man since that last time with him.  He's laying the pipe just so, too, like a craftsman, but he's not being dainty about it.  Everybody underestimates you.  Nobody's ever been sure with you, rough with you, trusting enough to listen when you beg for everything -- except him.  So he holds you down and presses his face into your neck and you feel his breath hard against your skin as he makes the precision-made Orlesian mahogany desk judder and groan.

     Gonna be sore in the morning.  In the moment, you're crying his praises to all Skyhold and the gods themselves.

     The stole's somewhere on the tower landing downstairs, along with pieces of Cullen's armor.  His pants are on the apartment steps.  The tower shaft door's still open -- from when you fell against it, kissing him and trying to get his pants open -- which means a cold breeze is coming up from below, but you don't really notice it.  Cullen's so hot on you, his skin flushed and dotted with sweat.  You want to lick his shoulder, but he's holding one of your arms above your head, pinned to the desk, and you can only cling to him with your free arm.  You're trying to hold onto his back, maybe so you won't get fucked off the desk, maybe to encourage.  You don't know.  You can't think.  It's better than it was in the Gallows. He's doing you better now than anyone's ever done you in your life.  He's fucking the breath out of you; you've learned to take shallow gasps in between strokes.  Also, he slows down when he feels you about to come, which makes you slur curses at him, but you know it will help you both last and that's good. 'Cause this isn't something you ever want to end.

     He sits up at one point, drawing your leg up to rest against his shoulder, and he's red-gold above you in the firelight.  Stroking your leg like a soothing meditation while inside you he burns.  You're fascinated by the rhythmic flex of muscle over his torso.  His eyes are shut, his expression one of pain and need and concentration.  He's not usually the sort to make noise during lovemaking, but he's been moaning ceaselessly, helplessly, since he entered you.  Lost himself in you.

     He forgets to slow down once and you come, bucking and soundless, all over the hand that's got your cock.  When you quit bruising up your back and swim out of the haze, you feel that he's stopped -- pressing up, working your spot, making sure your orgasm is nice and sweet.  But is he done?

     He opens his eyes and looks down at you.  "Not bloody yet."  He lifts your other leg to his shoulder, braces himself for a better angle, and gets back to work.

#

     Fire's dying out.  You're lying on the bed, on your belly, in a sprawl.  Eyes are wide open.  Mind's numb and shocked.  Nethers are raw.  You've got bruises all over your arse and upper thighs and shoulders and the back of your head, which he's soothing now with slow caresses.  It feels like he's still in you.  He'll never stop being in you.

     "D- d'you love me?" you stammer.

     "You know that I do."

     You swallow.  Throat's dry from all the yelling.  "N-not gonna ask if... if you'll stay."

     He leans close, warm as a blanket all along your back.  In your ear:  "You know that I will."

#

     In the morning Cullen has to go.  He asks for a token of your affection, as if you're a lady.  You want to laugh, but he's serious.  Always serious, when it's about love. 

     You think about it and then -- shit, this is embarrassing -- you give him the front lock of your hair.  That one forelock that'll never stay in place.  He smiles as he sees you cutting it.  He knows why you're giving him that bit.  He _wants_ that bit of you, the part too wild even for your tastes.

     Next time you see it, Dagna's worked it into some kind of extremely clever locket that's unopenable unless you use the exact right combination of button-presses and watch-knob turns.  Only Cullen knows the right combination.  He keeps it on him all the time, over the shirt, but under the chain and gambeson.  Protected. Held tight.

     Maker.  He's ridiculous.

#

     You give it a week to be sure.  That's all you can spare, because the Inquisition armies are gearing up to march on the Arbor Wilds.  It's a good week.  Cullen comes to you for the first couple of nights.  Once or twice when he doesn't, you go to him.  You complain about the holes in his roof until he agrees to get them fixed.  You make him move in with you until they are.

     After a week, you invite him up for dinner on your balcony.  The kids are there too when he arrives, and you're glad you didn't tell him about them beforehand, because he abruptly looks nervous.  Met them before, of course, but it's different now, and all of you know it.   

     You've got a nice picnic spread laid out on the blanket, and here on the balcony you've got some of the most breathtaking scenery in Thedas to look at.  Everybody relaxes pretty quickly, except Konsie.  She spent a few years in the Starkhaven Circle as a child before it burned down, and she knows Cullen used to be Knight Commander of Kirkwall.  Unlike the boys, she knows what that means in real terms:  that Cullen's made mages Tranquil, killed some, taken children from their parents.  The boys just ask him about you -- to your groaning embarrassment, and Cullen's amusement -- but when Konsie finally starts talking, her questions are more pointed.  Does Cullen think the Circles need to be restored?  What does he think about the mage rebellion?  You get the gist of her questions.  _If the Circles are brought back, will you try to take us from Carver?_

     Cullen's answers are illuminating, and astonishing.  "We must find another way," he says to her, with a gravity that few grown men use with teenage girls.  "Carver's father and siblings are proof that mages can lead normal lives and care for each other in a way that is safe and beneficial to society.  Those who become corrupt must be dealt with, certainly, but the rest... It is cruelty, how we have treated them.  That cannot continue."

     He meets your eyes after this.  It's an almost verbatim repetition of one of your old arguments.  One you thought he hadn't listened to.

     He leaves and the kids give their verdict.  Lem thinks Cullen must spend a _lot_ of time polishing his armor, and maybe doing his hair.  Malon, guessing rightly that the old Cullen would've locked him up on sight, thinks it's impressive that Cullen's changed so much.  For you.

     Konsie's quiet 'til you prompt her.  Then she blurts, "I don't know if I like him yet.  I like how much he likes you, though."

     "Yeah," you say.  You duck your eyes.  "I like him back.  A lot."

     "Figured that."  She smiles a little.  Her gaze sharpens.  "You going to marry him?"

     You blush hard, 'cause you haven't thought that far.  Well, you have, but it was just fantasy, not a possibility, before now.  "Maybe.  Got a world to put rights first."

     Konsie absorbs this.  Then she says, lowering her gaze, "I won't call him Papa.  That's for you."

     You get it, then, and you squeeze her arm reassuringly as you do.  "That's a thing to be earned, so it's fair.  He'll try, though, if you want him to.  I know him.  That's how he is.  Or if you'd rather not, he'll just be Cullen.  He respects the lines."

     Konsie considers what you've said.  Seems to like it.  But she's fourteen, see, and fourteen-year-olds have to test things. She tilts her head. "What if I said I didn't want you with him?"

     "I'd say you don't get to tell me who to be happy with, Big Kon."  You touch her cheek so she'll know it's not a rebuke.  It's just the truth.  "But that goes the same for him.  I wanted you to meet each other 'cause he's gonna have to think about what it means to have three mage kids.  That's not gonna be easy for any of us.  But I think it can be good, if we try."

     After a long while, she nods slowly.  "I think so, too."

#

     It _is_ starting over, in a way.  He's more demanding now.  Wants you more often, seems fonder of shoving you up against walls or pinning you to the bed, likes being on top more.  When you comment on it -- which takes a while because you _like_ it, Maker it's marvelous and new, he fucks you and you're lost in it for hours, thinking about his hands or the scratch of his beard long into the next day when you need to be focused on Quizzie shit -- he says, "You are contrary.  I was a gentleman before and you left.  Now I am a harder man, and you beg for me."  He blushes only a little as he says this amazingly filthy (for Cullen) thing.  You grin, mostly just glad he can joke about your leaving now.

     There's more to it, of course.  The withdrawal's part of it.  He's past the hump, through the worst, but the cramps still catch him at horrible times, and you know that the song of pleasure is one of the only things that can drown out the craving when it gets bad enough.  There's also the fact that you're two fighting men amid a war, and you both know it takes only one well-aimed arrow to end everything.  Plus, he was a Templar too.  He holds your hand sometimes, the one with the mark, and you can both feel the magic eating at you.  You both know you're on borrowed time even if you survive Corypheus.

     But mostly?  It's that he's taking care of you, now, the way you took care of him back at the Gallows.  And unlike you, he means not to falter in this chosen duty.  So you close your eyes and enjoy it as he unleashes hungers upon you that he's suppressed for too long -- because you want it. Because you _need_ it. And it's just. So. Bloody. Good.

     (You don't _ask_ for his hair.  He gets up from your bed one morning and fusses in the mirror and notices a little patch missing.  He glares at you.  You let him know you considered taking his curly short hairs instead.  He shuts up.

     You don't make it into jewelry or anything.  You just keep it in a kerchief, tucked into your clothes pocket, always.)

#

     The Arbor Wilds.

     It's a beautiful place for a horrorshow.  The battle goes well because the Inquisition is strong and Corypheus has no one to fight for him but a handful of broken Gray Wardens and Red Templars.  You bring Solas along, mostly so you can have a laugh while Morrigan humansplains to him, and he turns funny colors trying to hold in his rage.  Still don't fucking trust him, but at least he's good for something.

     But it's sad, seeing what the elves had.  Even if humans didn't do the worst to them, humans sure didn't fucking _help_ , enslaving the survivors and shattering the Dales and writing them out of the Chant and just generally being racial dicks.  It's also a warning.  This is what Corypheus would have of the whole world, if he could:  ruins and sad memories, maybe beautiful and overgrown, or more likely barren and foul once red lyrium spreads blight all over the place.

     Can't let it happen.  You give Morrigan to the Well of Sorrows, even though you don't want to, because _you cannot let that happen_.  She says it's hungry.  Not even a Witch of the Wilds deserves to be eaten by ancient magic -- and you like Morrigan, because Malon plays with her son and she doesn't think your boy's strange at all.  But you sacrifice her without an eyeblink, because that's what it takes to save the world sometimes.

     She lives, thank the Maker, and you get away from Corypheus by jumping through a mirror, but it's a narrow thing.  First time you've seen the fucker up close since Haven, and it's different somehow.  Maybe seeing him rip his way out of a Gray Warden makes him scarier; you knew he was a darkspawn, but you've killed so many darkspawn down the years that that doesn't really trouble you anymore.  (Hell, you killed _Corypheus_ , once.)  Corypheus now, though, is something altogether more horrible.

     You ask the kids to stay with you that night, and you need them.  Nightmares.  Bethany dying in an ogre's clawed hands.  Your own hands, crawling with Blight, the Anchor snuffed out forever.  Cullen infested with red lyrium, his beautiful hazel eyes gone mauve and his smile edged with pain and madness.  Malon's the one who wakes you.  "Was it demons?" he asks.  He knows a lot about demons in one's dreams.

     "N-no," you murmur, sitting up and rubbing your face.  You're on a pallet on the floor, having given your bed to Lem.  Konsie's awake too, watching you.  "Just... scared."

     "I get scared sometimes," Lem says, eyes gleaming from beneath the blankets.  So that's three woken up by your thrashing and groaning.  "It's all right to be scared.  You just can't let it stop you."  You smile at him, recognizing your own words reflected back.

     "I wish Cullen was here," Konsie says.  You blink at her in surprise, and she blushes.  "You don't have nightmares when he's around, do you?"

     You blink in surprise, but she's right.  Never noticed that before.

     Cullen gets back to Skyhold two days later, having used couriers' relay horses to rush the trip.  The army can't do that, though he says they're force-marching to get back as soon as they can.  He came ahead because he knows Skyhold's weak for now.  Soon as he arrives he starts rearranging what troops you have for defense.  Gets the Templars to patrol the ramparts -- _with_ the rebel mages who defected to the Inquisition after Dorian killed Alexius at Redcliff.  They all get along because they know what's at stake.  Corypheus is going to be desperate, and now you know what he's really capable of.  Haven still burns in Cullen's mind.

     You, Cullen keeps with him that night.  You're in his bedroom, where the roof and the hole in the floor have finally been fixed, and someone's even repaired the crumbling stonework of his walls.  There's a metal loop set into one wall here that predates your occupancy at Skyhold.  No telling what it was ever used for in the past.  But the use Cullen's decided to put it to now is trying your wrists together with silk, and hooking the silk through the loop.  You're all his, naked and trussed up.  He makes you watch him work for awhile, writing and shuffling papers in bed.  He's naked while he does this, his cock actually hard because he can feel you watching, hear you fidgeting, sense your frustration.  Finally he sets the papers aside and comes for you.

     You're helpless in his hands, and he likes that.  You writhe when he strokes you, as he nibbles your nipples; you gasp when he works fingers in and out of you while his tongue does the same thing to your mouth and ears.  He's tender enough to put a pillow under your back so the rough stone won't scrape your skin, and then he lifts your legs up 'round his hips and fucks you slow.  You can hear his aides, downstairs in his office, coming and going the way they usually do.  He whispers in your ear and you whimper aloud so they'll know their Inquisitor's being taken care of.  When you're really heated, on the brink, he turns you to face the wall, this time with the pillow under your belly.  It's your favorite position. The loop's on a little chain that rattles and clanks.  You can't move much because he's pressed against you.  Makes you recite Chant verses while he takes you, the bastard.  Mostly Benedictions 'cause that's his favorite, but a bit of Trials, too.

     "Benedictions ten," he says.  His breath's like a metronome. Like your heartbeat.

     "B-blessed are those... hnh... stand against the corrupt and the w-wicked..."  You can't shut your eyes.  You'll come if you've got nothing but darkness and his cock and his voice to hold you on earth, so you keep your eyes open and stare at the grainy stone.  " _Fuck_ , Cull."

     "And do not falter."

     "Shit.  Shit.  And do not f-falter."

     "Continue."

     Chains rattle as you clench your fists.  "Blessed are the, the peacekeepers.  Cull, Cull, _please_."

     His hand is splayed on your chest, fingers stroking your throat.  The other's on your hip, thumb petting your mabari.  "Champions of the just."

     "Ch- ch- champions... just... oh, Maker..."

     The hand on your chest shifts down, curls around your bobbing cock.  Begins stroking you, slowly, just enough to make you want to scream.  "Tolerable.  Trials fourteen, please, next."

     "Cull, you _shit_ , you _shit_ \-- "

     Fingers tightening just a little, near the base of your cock, where he can keep you from coming if he wants.  " _Trials.  Fourteen._ "

     You moan, long and loudly, in protest.  But then you obey, because you have to.  "I sh- shall not be left to wander... the drifting roads of the F-Fade..."

     "Yes," Cullen breathes against your skin, losing himself in ecstasy of two kinds.  "Oh, my Carver.  Oh, yes."

     Thus does the Commander of the Inquisition see to it that his Inquisitor prays and meditates upon the Chant as he should, in these final days of your great war.

#

     That's how it is, yeah?  That's what happens when the Maker decides to make you, of all blokes, the instrument of His salvation.  You never wanted to believe you were Andraste's understudy, or whatever, but here you are.  And everybody knows how it turned out for Andraste.

     Well, that's fine.  Always expected to be the sacrifice for others.  Never minded that duty, just that no one ever let you do it proper-like.  Now you're gonna do it for the whole world.  That's all right.

     So you love the fuck out of your kids.  You fuck the love out of your Cullen.  You hold your friends close, and are glad for them when Flemeth warns you that the end is coming.  Didn't need some old biddy to tell you the obvious.  You know how these things go.

     To the end, then.  On with it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and done, I think.


	9. Chapter 9

     So, Corypheus.

     It hits you, somewhere in the middle of the big-arsed battle that you thought was going to kill you, that he's a shitty adversary.  You're not really scared of him, see.  He's ranting by this point, his inner crazy flying free and proud, and instead of being unnerving it's actually just... pathetic.  You kill the red lyrium dragon easily; not nearly as much of a challenge as the Highland Ravager, especially after Morrigan whooped its arse.  (Go, her!)  Cory himself isn't even as difficult to fight now as he was back under the Vimmarks.  By the end of it, as he sits on his knees before you sobbing about god, you just want to put him out of his misery.  So you pull a Fenris and send his heart into the Fade. The rest of him gets sucked in with it, in pieces.  Might come back; did before.  But if he does, so be it.  Your team is strong.  Your hand might not be guided by Andraste, but it's got a mighty sharp sword in it and you know where the pointy end goes.  You'll stand.  That's what you do.

     As the smoke clears and everyone else gathers down on the ground level to check for broken bones and such, you head alone back up to the broken-down tower where Corypheus met his end.  You see Baldy pick up the pieces of the orb Corypheus had.  Powerful arcane artifact, or was; it makes your skin itch with magical residue, but that's fading now.  It's the look on his face that does it.  You've never been a man to rely on logic where instincts will do, and yours have always said that something about Solas is wrong.  He's good at hiding it.  _Really_ good -- but for fuck's sake, you've been betrayed by Teryn Loghain and Garrett Fucking Hawke and Knight Commander Meredith.  You can see a backstabber coming with your eyes closed.

     You stop behind him, sword still in your hand, and watch sidelong as he mourns the broken thing.  He knows you're there, you're pretty sure.  When he turns, his face writ with bitterness and sorrow and resignation, you nod.  "Right, then," you say.  "So that thing he had, the start of all this, was really yours.  _You_."

     He watches you for a long moment, and then, finally, the side of his mouth twitches in a rueful smile.  "You aren't the fool that you pretend to be, Inquisitor."

     "No, I am."  You shrug.  "Figured you for shit when I saw you, but thought you'd at least be useful.  And then I figured you might come around.  See how we're doing a good thing.  Join us for real, not just for show.  Guess not, yeah?"

     Something changes.  One minute Baldy's an apostate hobo and then suddenly he's taller, colder, with the gravitas of a nobleman who actually is noble and not just a rich prick.  And that's the thing that pinged you, you realize.  Not the magic, and not the obnoxiousness, but the falseness of his apparent low status.  Baldy's always had the air of someone who sees little people -- the poor and weak and ill-educated and so on, people like you've been on and off throughout your life -- as a project.  Something to pity, something to fix.  Not just fucking _people_.

     "No, I'm afraid not," King Baldy says.

     "So now what?  Taking your ball and going home?" 

     He launches into an explanation that sounds rehearsed. Must've been thinking about it awhile.  He's the one that created the Veil, see -- Fen'Harel, the elven god that Merrill once told your brother's dog a story about.  Turns out he did the Veil to stop the elven gods, who _do_ sound like giant wankers, but he didn't figure on it destroying ancient elven civilization and reducing his people to every other race's meat.  Sucks to be him.  But turns out he's thinking the way to fix everything is to take the Veil away.  Destroy the world _again_.

     "Yeah, because that worked out _so well_ before," you snap, cutting off his spiel.

     He pauses, annoyed.  He's never liked you.  "I am surprised that you care," he says, with an edge.  "Nothing you have done, neither sealing the Breach nor fighting Corypheus nor leading the Inquisition, has held any real meaning for you.  This affair has been nothing more for you than a backdrop to your selfish, sordid pursuit of the Commander -- while I am concerned with the fate of a whole people."

     "No you aren't.  If you were, you'd care that you're dooming the elves same as the rest of us."  You're furious.  Knew he was a wanker, didn't guess _how much_ of one 'til now.  "A thousand years of the world being told that the things on the other side of the Veil are demons, and you expect _anybody_ to survive?  Even your people won't be able to help thinking that your 'spirits' are monsters -- and they'll die for it.  For growing up in the world _you_ made!"  You turn and spit off to the side, but you catch his wince.  Not complete shit, is he?  Fucker.  "Sod your insults.  Maybe you're the one needs to get some sordid in your life, yeah?  Have at least one breathing, fuckable person you give two shits about, so you don't go on being a _sodding catastrophe_."

     His jaw tightens.  You think that one hit home.  "I do not expect you to understand."

     You let out one humorless laugh.  "No, I sure as fuck don't.  So how's this going to go, then?"  Your hand tightens on your sword.  It's just you up here.  You know he's powerful as mages go, and also he knows weird shit.  Smite still ought to work, though -- and you've figured out how to do weird shit, too, with the Anchor.  It might've been his once, if it came from that magic ball, but it's yours now, and you don't mind throwing it back in his face.

     His eyes flick to your sword, and then to your ready left hand, before he sighs.  "I have grown to respect you, Carver, even if -- "  He shakes his head.  "This need not be unpleasant."

     You roll your eyes and raise your sword.  He sighs.  It's almost a cliche.  Something appears behind him -- an eluvian.  You can't reach him before he steps through it, even with a rush, so you don't try.  You nod, though, and he frowns just a little as the mirror brightens into an opening.  Then he steps through, and is gone.

     Well.  That's what you get for thinking Corypheus was a disappointment.

     "Thanks for the sodding castle," you mutter, sheathing your sword.  Then you head back down to the others.

#

     So here's how it's to be.

     You set Leliana to finding all of Baldy's spies in your ranks.  Turns out there's lots of 'em, and also turns out you've got Qunari spies too -- who have some kind of dumbfuck plan in place to blow up Val Royeaux.  Wankers everywhere, like sodding crabs.  Don't these people know you're trying to fix the bloody world?

     Bull sends word to the few of his old contacts who'll still speak to him, and suddenly word comes out of Seheron that a shit-ton of Qunari working for somebody called the Viddasala just got reeducated.  So that's done.  You set Cassandra to fixing shit in the Chantry.  For that, you have to help make her the new Divine.  She's pissed about it, but she'll do what needs to be done.  You tell Barris to whip the uncontaminated Templars into shape and start rebuilding the ranks -- under the Inquisition, fuck the Chantry, with new recruits to use only enough lyrium to learn the skills.  Then their vigil will be about them coming off the stuff successfully.  Should be pretty easy withdrawal given only a few months' exposure at most, but it'll still test them enough to sort the wheat from the chaff.  You're trying to figure out what needs taking-care-of next when Garrett writes that he's going to Weisshaupt to find out what the fuck is going on.  Good.  He'll put the Wardens back in order.

     You're going to need the world in order, you think, if the next job on your plate is hunting down a god.

     But that's for later, when you find his trail.  Still got rifts to seal, so you can't do it yet, but Dagna's got a simple-enough solution to the whole "being eaten by your magic hand" business:  cut it off.  She gets excited about it -- wants you to give the hand to her, natch -- and then she shows you drawings for some kind of mechanical hand to replace it.  It's made of brass clockwork and embedded with magic crystals to make it flex and obey your will almost like a real hand.  Which is, uh... which is... Fuck, who are you kidding.  It's _cool as shit_.  Almost can't wait to chop your real arm off.

     All that's the big stuff, though.  Solas was right about you:  you don't really give a shit about the world.  You do what's necessary because that's your job, and you always do your best because you've got your pride.  At the end of the day, though, you're fixing the world for your kids.  Stopping Baldy so they can have a future. 

     And in the meantime --

     Cullen's standing at the top of the steps.  Josephine's had her way, coaxing him out of armor in Skyhold for the first time since the Inquisition was declared. He's wearing a white version of the formal dress, embroidered at the cuffs and collar in gold, and it looks sodding good on him.  Leliana suggested a secret ceremony for security purposes, but fuck that.  You've had the word spread all over Thedas, and everybody -- sodding _everybody_ , from Orzammar to Orlais -- has sent representatives to fill Skyhold's multiple courtyards.  Afterparty's going to be epic.

     They cheer as you walk up to stand beside him -- you in black and silver to complement him, and 'cause Josie says it brings out your eyes.  He's _blushing_ , sweet Maker.  You can't stop grinning.  Lem keeps shoving the pillow with the twin rings on it between you, and you have to keep telling him "Not _yet_ , I said, got to say our vows first." 

     Dorian remarks loudly that the rings may be the only things you and Cullen have waited to do in front of everyone.  The Bull hooks him close with an arm and kisses the top of his head so he'll shut up.  Reminds you:  got to talk to Bull about Konsie's commission to join the Chargers.  She's not allowed real missions 'til she's sixteen -- had it out with her about that already, loudly, but you won 'cause you're the papa -- but 'til then she can formally train and get recruit's pay, at least.

     Tomorrow for that.  For now, you reach out and take Cullen's hand.  His fingers are so tight on yours.  Not gonna let you go this time, is he?  Good.  You weren't planning on going anywhere, either.

     You turn to Cassandra to say the stuff you're supposed to say, and you even manage to do it without laughing at her Chantry hat. You forget the hat, though, when Cullen says, with that perfect gentle smile on his lips, "For the rest of my days. Yes."

     Not bad, you.  Could be worse, yeah?  Now go enjoy your life.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it, then. (Whew.) Dunno if anybody's still reading at this point, but if you made it this far, congratulations! I'm gonna go get a drink, then get back to the stuff I'm _supposed_ to be working on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Good Fences Make Good Neighbors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520015) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess)
  * [Memoriam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059290) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess)




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